


eyes like wolves, teeth like thorns

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, F/F, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 92,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9532172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She looks so young when she sleeps.Margaery's face is feline even at rest, and every so often she will purse her lips, as if she's dreaming about being kissed. Her lashes are sooty, dark against snowy skin--her eyelids are so translucent that Sansa can see the blue veins running beneath. Her hand still clasps Sansa's, and every so often it will tighten, almost as if she's afraid to let go. She breathes so lightly one might think, at first glance, that she is not breathing at all.I don't even know her that well, but I feel as though I've met her before.Sansa sits on the bed in her wrinkled dress, makeup smeared under her eyes, gazing at Margaery.Like something in me recognized something in her. It makes no sense.It never does.(Prep school AU.)Repost.





	1. wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published at 2013-07-28.
> 
> Posts will be gradually posted until chapter 40, the last chapter.

 

x.

It is the night before her life begins, and Sansa can't sleep.

They've moved—again—and this time into the perfect upper class paradise of New Forest, Connecticut. Their new house is beautiful, well-lit, high-ceilinged. But it still doesn't feel like home.

Sansa sits cross-legged on her bed with her crucifix in her hands, twisting the chain. Providence Girls' Academy. That is where she'll be in just six hours. Alone, except for her little sister, Arya, and neither want much to do with the other, anyway. Arya was a rebel. She'd never been the perfect Catholic girl that her older sister was. She walked her own way. And they were two years apart, besides. Sansa was going to be a junior, Arya a freshman. And yet Sansa was the more fearful of the two.

She'd been different in the past, before California and the fire. But it's difficult to recall those times now.

Sansa wonders if she should call her boyfriend, Will. He is still on the west coast, though, and the distance between them is too much to bear. So instead she gets up off of her bed and studies herself in the full-length mirror.

A slim frame, high cheekbones, a flower-like mouth. A tumble of auburn hair, more red than brown. And her eyes—that's what people always focused on, her eyes—are a hazel so brilliant they almost look yellow. Cat eyes, Will calls them. Sansa is beautiful and she knows this, but beauty can't assuage loneliness. Beauty can't make sense of a confused life; beauty is, she thinks, good for so little. After all, beauty can't bring them back to her.

She returns to her bed. She curls up. But those vivid eyes remain open, and save for an occasional blink, they never even close.

x.

Sansa is exhausted when she pulls up to Providence Academy the next morning, while her sister is somehow brimming with energy.

"Can you stop singing?" Sansa demands.

"Why would I?" And Arya belts out the most out of tune rendition of Lana Del Rey's "Born to Die" that Sansa has ever heard. The older girl rolls her eyes. Arya is impossible, and she will never understand her. Her little sister has even recently cut her hair short as a boy's. _She's lucky that she isn't ugly,_ Sansa thinks despairingly. _Somehow, she still looks like a girl._

"We have a neighbor," Arya announces. "You should date him."

"What?"

"He's good looking," says Arya, pushing a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. "And he's like… your age, I think. His name is Gendry."

"I have a boyfriend," Sansa reminds her sister.

"I wonder how long that will last," Arya mutters. Sansa hits her on the arm.

"What! A totally reasonable question, isn't it?"

Sansa parks the car in the vast parking lot and abandons her sister.

Providence Academy looks like something out of a fairytale. It is old, built from stone, and winged. Black gates flank the perimeter. And everywhere, there are girls, spilling out of cars, giggling with their heads close together, smoothing down their school skirts. Sansa tugs self-consciously at her own. She isn't sure if it's long enough, and she doesn't want to get a detention on her very first day.

It is easy to find her homeroom. It's room number 36, on the first floor of the east wing. She is the first one to arrive, and she settles down into the uncomfortable desk nervously, fiddling with her bag and her hands. Sansa has never been particularly shy, but now she is more cautious than she used to be, and anyway, her warmth is not a guarantee of friends. She remembers what happened at her last school, and winces. Heat floods her face.

 _Not again,_ she thinks. _It won't happen again. Please. Don't let it happen again. I've been so good, I've been so—_

And the door swings open, and three girls burst in.

But she doesn't see them, not at first. She just hears the laugh.

It is high and glittering and clear and possibly the most beautiful laugh that Sansa has ever heard. It is coming from the girl in the middle, and Sansa's stomach clenches.

_Not again—I thought… Not again._

She's lovely. She has a doe's kind brown eyes that tilt up slightly at the corners, and skin the color of fresh milk. Her light hair falls in lazy curls past her shoulders, and she has a sweet pointed chin, wide cheekbones. Her mouth is quirked and smiling. And she is looking at Sansa.

"New girl," she says, and beckons the other two—a brunette and a blonde—towards Sansa. Even her voice is sweet.

"Hey, what's your name?" The girl's skirt is surprisingly short, but the teacher sitting in the corner makes no move to reprimand her.

"Sansa. Sansa Stark."

"I'm Margaery," says the smiling, impossible girl, and bends over, placing her elbows on Sansa's desk. She tilts her head a little. "Sansa Stark. That's a beautiful name."

"Thank you."

"Sansa," she murmurs. "Sansa. Has anyone ever told you that you have eyes like a wolf?"

Sansa blushes. "No."

"You'll be my wolf girl," Margaery announces, and smiles again. "Sit with us at lunch, okay? I've always wanted a pet wolf." She reaches out to brush a lock of hair away from Sansa's face. "Don't look so scared. I don't bite."

"Neither do I," says Sansa, oddly entranced by the movements of the other girl's hand.

"We'll see," says Margaery coyly, the faintest promise of a smile still on her lips. "We'll see about that."

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	2. saudade

 

 

She’d known another girl like Margaery once, all white teeth and golden smiles, with those perfect wide cheekbones and pointed chin. The other girl had been kind to her, too, so sweet, buying her lunch and trading clothes, gossiping about boys with the gold-brown head ducked down. She’d been an angel, Sansa had thought, an angel sent to save her.

She’d been wrong.

_Will she want me to love her, too?_ Sansa thinks.

_Love isn’t selfish,_ she reminds herself. _Love is kind. It… forgives. But does it forget?_

No, Sansa would never forget.

She is the last one to leave homeroom. She watches Margaery go; she sees the toss of her lively head, and she smiles in return when the other girl shoots her a grin. "I'll see you at lunch, wolf girl. It's the table in the corner. Don't forget."

Sansa is almost struck dumb by her, by the effortlessness of her sweetness, by the ease of her walk.

_Not again,_ she thinks. _Please, not again._

She gathers up her books and leaves.

x.  
Sansa's first class is English Literature, which is a relief. She has always excelled at school, and English has always been one of her favorite subjects. Since she was young she's enjoyed submerging herself in stories, in hiding from the people around her. From the world.

It is not that Sansa is unfriendly--on the contrary she loves people, loves to touch, to be touched. Or at least, she used to.

She finds the class without much trouble and chooses a seat in the front. She is one of the first students to arrive, and studies the book she's brought with her for the first class. Lolita. She's read it already, of course.

Still, with nothing else to do, she flips to the first page. _Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul._

_My sin, my soul._ It is an uncomfortably familiar notion. Sansa squirms a little in her seat as she reads on.

"A precocious reader, are we? Getting ahead of the class already?" The voice is wry, the sound of a cat who has learned to speak. Sansa nearly jumps out of her skin; she hadn't even noticed anyone was there. She looks up.

The teacher standing before her is a little shorter than the average man, and more handsome than the average man, too. He has dark hair which is just beginning to lighten at the temples, a clever, almost feline face, and light sea grey eyes that do not smile when his mouth does. She cannot guess at his age; he seems young, though, but his youth does not put her at ease. On the contrary, he makes her instantly nervous, and she cannot help but feel as though his eyes see far too much. Through her clothes, underneath her skin.

"I love this book," she says, and manages a smile. Her mother had taught her to always be polite. Her mother had taught her many things. Before...

"It's beautiful, I think," says Sansa. "The writing, I mean. And I can't believe he didn't even write it in his first language."

"He was a genius," says the man, and he smiles again. "But I have to start class. If you ever want to discuss Nabokov with me, you can drop by my office, all right? Second floor, east wing. Says Baelish on the door."

Sansa thinks to herself that she would rather not, but she just smiles.

She is only sixteen, but she knows how to placate men with smiles when they want more.

x.  
She spots Arya in the cafeteria at lunch, surrounded by a group of girls with wildly dyed hair and rolled-up skirts. She watches as her sister flings a spinach pie at one of them and then ducks under the table, laughing. Sansa rolls her eyes. Arya would.

Even the cafeteria is beautiful, she can't help but notice: high-ceilinged, with lovely tall windows and stone floors. It is like something out of a story.

And so is Margaery, really.

The girl is sitting where she said she'd be, in the furthest corner, surrounded by a flock of girls. Sansa can't help but think that Margaery is the prettiest girl she's ever seen. Even prettier than--

_No. That's the past. You're not who you were. You're fixed. You're good._

Sansa takes a deep breath and makes her way towards them, ignoring Arya's shout of "Hey, Sansa! Want to see what I can do with this spoon?"

Margaery's face lights up when she sees Sansa, and she hushes the other girls. "Wolf girl!" She pulls over a chair from a neighboring table and sets it directly next to her. "Grab a seat."

Sansa shyly sits down. She has nothing to eat; she was exhausted this morning, and forgot to bring her lunch. She also has no money on her. So she crosses her legs and smiles at all of the unfamiliar faces, and ignores her grumbling stomach.

"Welcome to the hallowed halls of Providence!" Margaery squeezes her arm. "I'm Margaery Tyrell. The redhead is Alla, and the brunette is Jeyne. The blonde with the gorgeous skin is Elinor. But I'm the most important, of course, and the one you'll love the most." She smiles, and it is so genuine, so full of warmth, that Sansa feels the world turn underneath her.

_The one you'll love the most._

"What's up, Sansa?" Alla grins. "You bring anything for lunch?"

"I forgot it," says Sansa, and feels herself blush a little. She blushes so easily now.

"We can't have you go hungry," says Margaery, and reaches into her Prada bag. "Here. Take this."

Sansa takes the apple from her and toys with it, still feeling shy.

"So," says Jeyne, "who are your teachers?"

"Notting, Reader, Baelish--"

"He's so hot," sighs Elinor.

"He's also a total creep," says Margaery. "Hey. If he gives you trouble, come to me."

Sansa cannot imagine what Margaery could do, but the offer warms her from the inside, sets a fire to something in her belly.

She takes a bite of the apple.

x.  
It's only when she gets home that Sansa realizes she hasn't thought of Will at all.

And it's only after she curls her hair does she realize that she's styling it just as Margaery had worn hers that very day.

And it's only when she wakes up the next morning does she realize that it's Margaery she dreamt of, and that her nightmares have completely disappeared.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	3. remembrance

x.  
Sansa had always thought that happiness is not something one feels, but something one remembers.

Margaery has changed all that, like she's changed nearly everything else.

These changes come suddenly, abruptly, at first creeping in on sly kitten paws and then pouncing, yet Sansa has trouble seeing the difference over the weeks that follow. One morning the sun looks much the same as it always has, and the next it is glorious, a torrential bounding light, something to drown in, to worship. One day her fears cling to her like wounds and the next, they are whispered away by Margaery's laughing voice.

 _Happiness isn't just a memory after all,_ she thinks. _It's looking into her eyes._

x.  
 _Wolf girl,_ they call her, Margaery and Elinor and Alla and Jeyne. _Hey wolf girl, what's up?_

Such a name surely must mean that she belongs somewhere at last.

x.  
 _You're just happy to have a true friend,_ she tells herself, as she dutifully chops up peppers for dinner in her parents' expensive kitchen. _That's all it is. Nothing more._

"Yo."

"Hey." Sansa rolls her eyes.

"Could you maybe work on those a little faster? I'm starving." Arya pulls up a stool to the counter and puts her chin in her hands, watching Sansa chop avidly. She is wearing a torn t-shirt and skinny jeans, a notable contrast to her sister's perfectly-pressed skirt and cap sleeve blouse.

"Could you maybe leave me alone? I'm going as fast as I can." 

"Dude. What's gotten into you? I was just saying--oh, hey, that Gendry guy? Totally checking you out as we got into the car this morning."

"Maybe he was checking you out."

Arya contemplates this for a moment. "Yeah... no. My skirt was like, wrinkled and my hair was a mess and you looked like some perfect angel goddess straight out of Vogue."

Sansa can't help but smile. "Maybe he's not into perfect angel goddesses. Maybe he's into scrawny tomboys. Anyway, I have a boyfriend."

"Yeah, you seem sooo into him, too."

 _I'm trying to be,_ Sansa thinks. _I really am._

To Arya she just says, "Will is great and I don't know why you're obsessed with our relationship and this _Gendry_ guy--"

Arya does something strange, then. She puts her hand over Sansa's and gives it a squeeze.

"You know why," she murmurs.

Sansa's eyes begin to burn. She pauses and for a moment the two sisters sit there in the kitchen, hand-in-hand, and neither say a word.

x.  
It is later that night, and Sansa is laying in bed doing the reading for Baelish's class, her sister's dog curled at her feet. Her phone begins to ring and for a moment she remains in place, frozen. _Please be Margaery, please be Margaery, please be Margaery--_

Finally she glances over. _Margaery T._ , the screen reads, and she smiles, absurdly.

"Hey!" Sansa tries not to sound too breathless when she picks up the phone.

"Hey girl, what's up?" Even Margaery's voice is sweet, coy and innocent at the same time.

"Um, nothing, doing... things. Reading, I mean." It's embarrassing, how Margaery is the only one who renders her awkward and clumsy with words. Sansa is never graceless. Except when she speaks to _her_.

"Ooh. Sounds titillating."

Sansa blushes.

"Look," Margaery continues, "I'm having a party this Friday, and I really hope you can come. My parents are out of town, and it'll just be me and my brother. And if you drink, you can just sleep over... I have a really big bed."

Sansa nearly drops the book she's holding. "I don't really drink, and um, I could just sleep on the floor--"

"Don't be silly. But seriously, this should be an amazing party, and I really want you to meet my brother, Loras, he's great. I think you two would get along. My other brothers don't live around here anymore, it's just me and him. Oh, and his boyfriend will be there, and he's awesome, too. We're like, best friends. Or something. Whatever. The point is, I really want _you_ to come."

"I'll be there." Sansa is smiling widely now, and her heart is beating faster. "What time is it?"

"Starts at nine," says Margaery, and then she lowers her voice to a whisper, as though others will overhear. "But you can come early, if you want."

Sansa manages a stupid giggle. 

"Look, I have to go, I should be staring at my math textbook or something. But I'll see you tomorrow, wolf girl. Sleep tight."

"Bye."

Sansa spends the next half hour going over everything Margaery said to her on the phone, turning over the words in her head, looking for hidden meanings, for secrets, and finally she turns on her side, hugs the pillow to her chest, and dreams.

 _You have to be careful,_ a voice inside of her says, _You remember what happened when--_

Sansa closes her eyes and tries to forget.

 _Just for a little while,_ she thinks, _let me forget._

x.  
The next morning dawns rose red.

Sansa is up early, preparing pancakes and eggs, bacon and cereal. But the pancakes are too dark, the eggs too watery, and the bacon burns. She brings it upstairs on a tray anyway, and the house is silent except for the gentle sound of Arya snoring. Her father's car is not in the driveway; he has left for work early, perhaps to try and forget.

Sansa will never truly forget for long, because it was all her fault in the first place.

"Mom?"

Her voice is soft, and afraid.

There is no answer, and she hadn't expected one, so she opens the door to the master bedroom and looks in.

It's dark. Sansa can make out the shape of the large bed in the middle of the room, and the tiny shape in it. For a moment she pauses, caught between grief and fear, and then she clears her throat and turns on the light.

"Mom," she says, louder now. But her mother is already awake; her eyes are open, and they are staring at the ceiling.

"I brought you breakfast," she continues, and walks towards the bed. "Pancakes, your favorite. I'm sorry the eggs are kind of runny, and the bacon is sort of black. I had my mind on... other things."

Her mother is sitting up now, but those clear blue eyes are as vacant as the sky. She looks at Sansa as if she is a stranger; she picks up the fork and knife, but they are clumsy and awkward in her slender fingers.

Sansa's voice breaks a little. "Happy birthday, Mom."

The woman in the bed smiles, because she knows she should, but there is little happiness in it, and even less recognition.

_If you just hadn't--_

Sansa manages a trembling smile. "I hope you like it."

And then she turns and walks from the room, slowly, because she knows it will upset her mother if she sees Sansa start to cry.

  



	4. forgiveness

x.  
After the red rose dawn comes a storm worthy of Sansa's grief.

She and Arya drive to school in silence. _She is sitting there blaming me,_ Sansa thinks, _and she's right to do it. It really is my fault. Bran and Rickon, and Mom, and our sunny California house, the house with the grey door, and Dad's happiness, it's all gone. Because of me, because--_

Arya screams.

Sansa slams on the breaks and twists the wheel, narrowly missing a man on a motorcycle. The car lurches to a sudden stop and they sit there, breathless, as traffic congeals around them, furious and impatient.

"Holy fuck." Arya's eyes are wide. "Holy fuck, I mean, we almost killed that guy--"

But Sansa is already running out into the storm, heedless of her perfectly pressed school uniform and leather Oxfords, and she collapses to her knees beside the fallen motorcyclist. _No, no,_ she thinks, _I can't have killed him, too, I can't, it's not right, I just couldn't see because of the tears, I was looking, I was looking--_

"Sir," she whispers, absurdly, because the storm swallows up her words. "Sir?"

Half of him is underneath the motorcycle; he isn't moving. Gingerly she touches his shoulder. "Sir?"

And then the huge man comes to life. He lifts his head, and Sansa nearly bursts into tears.

He gives a pained groan.

"I'm all right, girl," he manages, and his voice, though shaky, is powerful enough. "I'm all right. Are you?"

Sansa has not been all right in quite some time, but she nods her head and bites back the tears. "I'm so sorry," she gasps, "I was--crying, I didn't see you, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Why were you crying?"

Sansa stares at him, perplexed. "Because... because I killed the people I loved the most."

For a moment he simply looks at her; his gaze is disconcerting. Then he says simply, "Look, can you help get this bike off me?"

Sansa gets to her feet and pulls at the motorcycle. It does not move. Frustrated, she tries again, and again, and again, until finally there is little Arya beside her, throwing her weight against the bike, and still it does not move. But by now, the cops have arrived, and they are shooing the girls away, to ask them questions, to determine who to blame.

"Hey," barks the man at the nearest cop. "It wasn't their fault. Should've looked where I was going."

The police officer is rifling through a notebook. "Your name?"

"Sandor," the man says, and glances towards Sansa and Arya one more time. "Sandor Clegane."

x.  
They are late to school. By the time they arrive, Sansa knows that her English class started nearly twenty minutes ago, and Arya darts off with a "shit" and a brief smile.

Sansa walks slowly.

 _I was so happy,_ she thinks. _For a while, I was happy. Because of Marg--because of my new friends. But everything followed me here from California. Every single ghost. What was I thinking? Why had I thought I deserved happiness, anyway?_

She takes a shivery little breath.

_The last thing I deserve is happiness._

She is soaked through when she finally gets inside, but Sansa barely notices. She does notice, however, a vibration coming from her bag.

Almost timidly she pulls out her phone. Robb.

For long moments she stares at the screen, at the picture of her brother there. He is laughing in it, and she can make out the careless blue of his eyes. Robb was always laughing. Sansa shudders and realizes she cannot tell if the wetness on her cheeks is rain or tears. Slowly, guiltily, she slides the ringing phone back into her purse.

_Maybe I don't deserve him, either._

The entire class turns to look at her when she enters the English classroom. Sansa knows how she must look--drenched, with bruised knees and her hair a mess--but smiles dutifully anyway. And then she slinks into a chair in the back.

"Miss Stark," comes the silken voice of Baelish, "I'd like to have a word with you after class."

There are titters throughout the classroom, but Sansa merely sits with her back straight, chin up.

"Yes, Mr. Baelish."

The end of the lesson comes far too soon, and almost immediately afterwards the room has emptied and Sansa's teacher is beckoning her towards him.

Sansa perches uneasily on the chair he has drawn behind his desk. She has difficulty meeting his eyes, for some reason; she clutches her copy of Lolita and crosses her legs instead. _Lolita, my sin, my soul._

"Are you all right, Sansa? You've missed one class this week, and only showed up to this one halfway through."

Preposterously, Sansa almost smiles. Yes, she'd skipped class on Monday. With Margaery. Sansa was not the type to skip a class, but all she'd seen, that day, was the lure of Margaery's smile, and all she'd been able to hear was the soft rollicking sweetness of her voice. _We'll get ice cream,_ the girl had told her, _I'll drive my car, and you'll watch out for teachers. We'll have so much fun._ And they had.

But now Sansa is all alone in a classroom with Petyr Baelish, and the sweet sting of happiness she feels when she looks into Margaery Tyrell's eyes is a far and distant thing.

"I'm sorry, sir. I was... sick."

Her English teacher shifts in his seat, and Sansa dares to look at him. He doesn't seem angered by her obvious lie; on the contrary, he appears amused. She tries a shy smile, though inside she is trembling, and doesn't know exactly why. It has something to do with the way he looks at her, as if she is wearing no clothes, as if he sees things even she herself doesn't see.

"You can tell me the truth, you know." Sansa feels a warmth on her bare knee; she looks down, and sees his hand resting there, lightly.

 _Maybe this is what you deserve,_ she thinks to herself, with an uncharacteristic bitterness.

"I know, Mr. Baelish." She does not move her leg, though her face flushes pink. "But I'm fine. Thank you. Really. I'm fine."

He lifts his hand and she exhales in relief.

She does not meet his eyes.

x.  
"Wolf girl," sings the now-familiar voice, the voice Sansa has begun to hear in her dreams. "Wolf girl, wolf girl, where've you been all day?"

Sansa turns in the hallway and there is Margaery, laughing, her long brown curls tumbling down her shoulders and her effortless beauty almost painful to see. Her skirt is much too short, still, but Sansa has never seen her get in trouble for it. She floats. _She's not like the rest of us. She's... different._

"Sorry," says Sansa, suddenly horribly conscious of her damp hair, her wrinkled blouse. "I pretty much got into a car accident on the way to school, so I was... late."

The easy joy on Margaery's face disappates and is replaced by beautifully genuine concern. "Oh my _God_ ," the other girl says, and comes towards Sansa. "You're okay, right? And your little sister?"

And then, Margaery hugs her.

She smells of roses and something wild. _A perfume,_ Sansa thinks, or tries to think, because she can't really process anything right now--nothing beyond the feeling of Margaery's slim form pressed up against her, how her arms are wrapped around Sansa's side, how soft her hair is and how smooth her cheek. Sansa wishes for them to stand like that for at least a brief eternity, but too soon the other girl draws away.

"Of course you're all right," says Margaery, and she's wearing that smile again, the one that makes the world turn underneath Sansa's feet. "Wolf girl. Tougher than nails."

"No," says Sansa, laughing, "Arya's the tough one."

"Psssssh. Shut up, wolf girl."

Sansa does.

"I'm so glad you're okay." Margaery's brown eyes, so bright in this light that they look flecked with gold, widen. "What would I do without you?"

Sansa's breath catches, despite herself.

"I mean, I need _someone_ to tutor me in math." Margaery's mouth quirks, and Sansa smiles. Margaery has no trouble with math, but the other girl likes to downplay her own intelligence. "You're coming early on Friday, aren't you?"

"Yeah, of course," says Sansa. It's then she realizes she'd have said yes to anything Margaery had demanded, no matter how foolish. But the other girl doesn't need to know that. She can't know that.

 _Protect yourself,_ Sansa thinks.

_No one's going to do it for you._

  



	5. blush

x.  
Sometimes Sansa wonders if God has forgiven her yet.

One would think that the mere presence of Margaery, so light-filled, so wondrous, would be a mark of God’s absolution. Sansa would have thought so too, once. But now she knows that the most beautiful things can be the most terrible curses; she knows that beauty does not imply goodness, that just because you believe you have been saved doesn't make it so.

 _Beauty itself may not be goodness,_ she thinks at lunch, staring across the table at the other girl, _but Margaery is both. She is._

The brown-haired girl raises her head, meets Sansa’s gaze. Smiles.

_Remember how it was, the last time you thought you had someone. Look what happened. And even though you tried your hardest, you could never forgive her. So why do you think God has forgiven you?_

_Why do you think you deserve forgiveness?_

Because she wants it.

But what we want and what we deserve are two very different things.

x.  
 _Maybe she’s a sign He’s forgiven you._

_Maybe it’s a test._

_Maybe it’s a punishment._

Sansa doesn’t know. Test, gift, punishment—they all look the same to her: a star-eyed girl with deep autumn hair and an astonishing smile.

x.  
“Dude. You’ve been curling your hair for like twenty years.”

“Uh. More like twenty minutes.”

“Got a date tonight or what?”

“You know I have a boyfriend.” But Arya also knows perfectly well that it is a complete farce; so does their father, Ned, and their brothers, too. Sansa’s hand grips the curling iron. She’d just spoken with Will on the phone. He’d told her he loved her; she’d lied in return.

_I am trying so hard to be normal. I am trying so hard to be good._

“Uh, that doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, I don’t have a date,” says Sansa, though her mind flits instantly to Margaery. “I’m going to a party.”

“Oooooh. Gonna get shitfaced?”

Sansa turns to her little sister and rolls her eyes. “Yes. Absolutely shitfaced. You know how wild I am.”

“Well, you know what they say about Catholic schoolgirls…” And Arya dances off before Sansa can come up with a proper retort.

She has laid out three outfits on her bed, and is having trouble choosing. One looks too informal; the other, too matronly. She settles on a short black skirt and a long-sleeved black bouse, with sheer black tights underneath and a pair of Louboutins (they were her mother’s, but Cat doesn’t wear them anymore). When she examines herself in the mirror, she instantly wonders what Margaery will think.

_Will she think I’m trying too hard?_

Sansa hears Arya whistle at her as she grabs her keys and darts out the door. It is dark outside; the stars are high, and there is a fine chill in the air. Sansa feels oddly alive.

It is only a short drive to Margaery’s house, though Sansa nearly gasps when she sees it. The house itself is gated, a giant ‘T’ surrounded by roses engraved into the metal. She presses the button to let herself in, and hears a voice on the other end admit her when she gives her name. _Wow,_ Sansa thinks, _And people say my parents are rich._

The driveway is long and white, and Sansa drives slowly, her heart beating strangely fast. _What am I afraid of?_

She parks in front of the large dark manor and checks her phone. It’s 8:45—the party starts at nine, but then, Margaery had said she could be early. For one silly moment she contemplates sitting out in her car for another fifteen minutes, before pulling the keys from the ignition and grabbing her purse.

_What does Dad say? You can be only be brave if you’re afraid._

x.  
“Sansa!”

Sansa hopes she is not imagining the widening of Margaery’s eyes at the sight of her; she hopes she is not exaggerating the sound of joy in her low, breathy voice. She hopes that Margaery’s heart is constricting a little, too.

“Oh my _God,_ ” continues the other girl as she steps through the doorway. “You look amazing. So many guys are going to be all over you; good thing I have pepper spray. Don’t laugh; I’m not joking. Okay, seriously--come in.”

Margaery is immaculate in a short blue shift dress; her heels must be six inches high, and they make her legs look so incredible that Sansa has to force herself to glance away.

_What are you doing? You have to be good._

“You look amazing,” says Sansa, as she follows Margaery into the house. “I love your dress.”

“I love your heels. God, how much did those cost you?”

“Oh—they’re my… mom’s.”

“You’re so lucky to have a mom you can share shoes with!” Margaery’s eyes light up. “Seriously, I have such tiny feet, I can’t share shoes with my mom. Anyway. Come on, wolf, my brother and his boyfriend are in the kitchen. I want you to meet them.”

Margaery’s house seems like something out of a story. Sansa tries not to stare. It is dark, dimly-lit, with high ceilings and stone underfoot. Everywhere there are paintings and sculptures, and the entire place smells like roses. Like Margaery.

The kitchen, though, is bright, lit by low-hanging lamps. Sansa can make out two figures sitting at a high table, laughing. When she draws closer, she knows immediately which one is Margaery’s brother; he is beautiful, like she is, with those perfect brown curls and smiling eyes. The other boy is also astonishingly handsome, with hair so dark that Sansa can’t tell if it’s deepest blue or truest black.

“Hey, you guys,” says Margaery, “Meet my friend, Sansa. Or you can call her wolf girl. But remember—she’s _mine._ ”

_I’m hers._

The boy who must be Loras just laughs at her. “Cool it, Marg. I’ve got everything I want right here.” His hand rests on the other boy’s forearm. “Nice to meet you, Sansa. I’m Loras. And… you’re just as pretty as my sister said.”

Sansa flushes. _She told him I was pretty?_ A stupid giddiness sweeps over her momentarily.

“Hey, I’m Renly,” says the beautiful, dark-haired boy with a flickering grin. The expression looks sly, careless. “Nice to meet you.”

 _They’re all so beautiful,_ thinks Sansa. _I feel so…_

“Hi,” she says, smiling. “It’s nice to meet the two of you. And thank you for inviting me over.”

“No problem.” Loras shrugs. “You ready for the party tonight?”

“I… think so?”

Renly laughs. “No one’s ever ready for a Tyrell party.”

“But we can try to prepare ourselves, regardless.” Loras has walked away from the high table and is searching through a cabinet. “Hey, what do you drink?”

“Oh—um.” In truth, Sansa is not at all familiar with alcohol; she had gotten drunk once, at a party back in California, and hadn't chose to repeat the experience. Now she looks to Margaery for guidance. The other girl just smiles.

“Make her something sweet,” commands Margaery. “Not very strong. With vodka, not whiskey.”

Sansa fiddles with her hands until Loras puts the drink in front of her.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and she looks up, into his eyes. They are warm and soft, just like his sister’s. “It’s not strong.”

“I trust you,” says Sansa shyly, and takes a sip. It's delicious, and very sweet. Loras and Margaery Tyrell seem infinitely more mature than her; here they are, selecting from different kinds of alcohol, mixing drinks. She can only imagine the expression on her father’s face if he saw her now. At home, alcohol was only for very special occasions, and it was usually just a half-glass of wine at that.

“We’ll watch out for you, Sans,” says Margaery, settling herself across the table from Sansa. “I know you don’t drink. Any guy tries to bother you…” She shrugs. “Loras throws a mean right hook. I have pepper spray.”

Sansa laughs.

It has been a long time since she’s felt so warm and comfortable and content. A part of her knows she doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve the kindness of Margaery and Renly and Loras, but another part clings to it anyway. _Just one night,_ she thinks. _Just give me one night._

“I’m a little jealous,” Margaery continues. “I wanted to be the prettiest girl at the party, and then _you_ showed up.”

“You still are,” says Sansa, blushing stupidly.

“Oh, wolf girl,” says Margaery, “See? This is why I love you.”

 _You can’t say that,_ Sansa thinks, _because then I’ll begin to believe you._

  



	6. heat

x.  
Sansa knows she is drunk when her brother Jon calls her and her first impulse is to throw the phone at the wall.

The party has come alive; Sansa sits on a bar stool giggling with Alla and watching the intoxicated teenagers stumble by. The world seems incredibly bright, and Alla's bad jokes suspiciously funny--Sansa should know she is drunk, by then, but it isn't until she sees Jon's face pop up on her phone's screen that she fully realizes it.

"Oh, no."

"Ooooh, who is _that?_ " Alla's breath is hot in her ear. "He's cute."

"He's too old for you," says Sansa, "And he's my _brother_."

"You should answer."

"Why?"

"Because he's your brother and you love him," says Alla, as if it were a stupid question.

"Fine." Sansa slips off the stool and clutches her phone in her hand. "Watch my purse. I'll be back... in like two seconds... Promise. Okaaaaaaaaaay. Love you!"

Sansa finds a dark corner in one of the house's many living rooms, and puts the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Are you drunk?" Jon's voice sounds torn between amusement and concern.

"I don't know. Are _you_ drunk?" Sansa giggles.

"I'm about as sure that I'm not drunk as I'm sure that you are."

"Are you calling to bug me about Mom?"

"What? No. I'm calling to see how you're doing."

"I'm doing fucking great."

"Since when do you swear?"

"Since I started drinking. So, like, tonight."

"Where are you?"

"This girl's house." Warmth floods Sansa's face. "This girl Margaery Tyrell. My friend."

"Are her parents there?"

"This wouldn't be a party if her parents were here, silly."

She hears Jon sigh. "Don't get into a car with anyone who's been drinking, okay? Actually, just stay there tonight, all right? Promise me."

_I wonder what her bedroom looks like._

"Sansa!"

"Yeah, I promise! I promise, Jon." Her voice softens. She does miss him.

"Okay, I just wanted to check in on you. I know--older brothers are the worst. Look, I'll talk to you later. Be careful. Bye."

"Bye," Sansa whispers. She takes the phone from her ear and stares at it for a long while, remembering. _We used to be a whole family. We weren't always broken. I wasn't always like this._

"Wolf girl, we're gonna play spin the bottle," Alla shouts to her from the kitchen. "There's like six guys lining up just so they can get a chance to kiss you." Sansa blushes, again. "So get in here!"

x.  
It doesn't take very much to wound an open heart.

Sansa is breathless when she reaches the kitchen, hoping against hope that Margaery will be there, that Margaery will play the stupid game, too. _(Do I want to kiss Margaery?)_ And Margaery _is_ there, just as she'd hoped.

With her arms wrapped around another girl.

It's as if it's a scene from a movie, it's as if they are all just actors dedicated to memorizing every word, every movement--because the light from the low-hanging lamps seems to cling to the two girls alone, highlighting their feline cheekbones, their long untangled hair. Margaery's head is thrown back and she is laughing at something the other girl said, laughing so hard that she nearly knocks her drink over. And the other girl is smiling, and Sansa realizes with a sinking heart that she is _beautiful_ , perhaps the most beautiful girl that Sansa has ever seen. She's a little thing, slight, shorter than Sansa, with hair the color of spun gold. But her face, Sansa thinks, her _face_ \--it's like something from a story, the perfect symmetry of it, except for where it's not symmetrical at all--the flower-like mouth, the wide eyes, upturned like a cat's, the shy small nose. She is so beautiful that Sansa feels the wind knocked out of her all over again.

She is frail and powerful all at once. Sansa, in her meekness, can't compare.

Surely even Margaery sees that.

"Oh, guys! My wolf has returned to me!" It feels as though everyone in the crowded room turns to look at her with those words; Sansa smiles at them all uncertainly, though her heart is pounding so hard she is afraid it will crack her rib cage open.

"You two must meet. Right now. Immediately." Margaery puts her hand in the blonde girl's and pulls her towards Sansa.

Up close the girl is even more stunning. Sansa notices she's dressed very plainly, and yet there is a radiance to her, a radiance that Sansa can't achieve even after hours at the mirror. She has a plain grey dress that hangs to her knees, and worn black ankle boots. Her only accessory is a long necklace with a dragon-shaped charm hanging from it. She is tiny, even thinner than Sansa, and she is smiling. It's the smile that worries Sansa the most. How could anyone turn away from that smile?

"Hello," says the dangerous girl. She speaks with an English accent, and extends a delicate hand. "I'm Dany. And you're Sansa, right?"

Sansa nods wordlessly, takes Dany's hand in hers.

"Pleased to meet you, Sansa." _She's being genuine. She's not fake at all._ Sansa smiles, nods again.

"Dany is one of my very best friends," says Margaery, and Sansa sees how her entire face comes alive when she speaks about the girl with the dragon necklace. "I didn't think she'd make it tonight--but we got lucky." She beams.

 _I wish I could make her that happy,_ thinks Sansa, absurdly.

"Anyway," says Margaery, "We're going to play spin the bottle. Don't look at me like that. I know it's ridiculous. But the people have spoken, and who am I to deny the people?" She bats her eyelashes at Sansa. She is clearly at least a little drunk.

"The people _do_ come first," says Dany, laughing. "You must always put them ahead of yourself, right?"

"What a wonderful empress you'd be," Margaery sighs.

"Not an empress," says Dany. "A _queen_."

"Very well, my queen," says Margaery, and she winks at Sansa. "Lead me to your--our?-- people."

There must be nearly a hundred people at the party by now, and thirty in the kitchen alone, but Margaery easily creates a circle of about fourteen on the floor. Sansa sits in between a red-haired girl and a dark-haired boy with an aquiline nose and braces. Margaery is directly across from her, and Dany is somewhere to her right, besides Alla. Sansa doesn't even recognize most of the people in the circle, but what did it matter? A kiss was just a kiss.

 _Except if it was Margaery,_ she thinks, despite herself. The thought comes so suddenly that she can't stop it. Sansa bites her lip, hard.

_No. You're good now, you're good..._

x.  
Alla goes first.

She spins the bottle and in the end it points to a good-looking boy wearing all black. Alla blushes prettily, Sansa thinks, almost as if she's never been kissed. _Maybe she hasn't been._ But the redhead goes to kneel in front of the boy in black, anyway, and they kiss--for a moment just, because Alla darts away after a few seconds. Sansa almost smiles at the disappointed look on his face.

It is Dany's turn next, and Sansa sits with her hands in her lap, anxious for no real reason she can name. When the blonde girl's hand rests, poised, over the bottle, Sansa feels faintly dizzy. Then she spins it, and the world spins, too.

In a few moments the bottle begins to slow and Sansa absurdly begins to pray a little.

No use; it ends up pointed towards Margaery, anyway.

There is a sudden roar in the room, and a torrent of whistles. Sansa closes her eyes for a moment. _It's just a stupid game, it's just a stupid game..._

She opens her eyes to see Margaery smiling wickedly, but Sansa isn't blind to the flush in her cheeks. _Is she embarrassed, or excited? And why do I need to know, anyway?_ "You rigged it, didnt you, Dany?" Margaery is saying, laughing. Then she gets up off the ground to go kneel before Dany, and Sansa finds that she can't look away.

Margaery reaches over in silence to brush a lock of hair away from the other girl's cheek, and for a moment she just sits there, studying her intently. There is a tiny smile on Margaery's face, and it is the smile which hurts Sansa the most. Then she tilts her head, leans forward, and Dany does the same, wordlessly. Their eyes flutter closed.

They kiss for a very long time.

Sansa is deaf to the whooping and hollering of the assorted males in the room; indeed, everything seems queerly quiet, as though someone has turned down the sound. She watches as both Margaery and Dany lean into the kiss, as her friend strokes the blonde girl's hair, her cheek, her neck. She sees their lips part and Margaery accept Dany's tongue into her mouth; she sees Dany cradle Margaery's face gently, like the face of a beloved child. Their knees touch; their bodies almost are, too. Finally they clasp hands, lace their fingers together--they are still holding hands when they draw apart at last.

Sansa hears Margaery's whisper, over the groans and protests in the room. "My queen," she murmurs to Dany, giggling, and something in Sansa turns to stone.

x.  
Sansa is drinking whiskey on the steps of the Tyrells' house when Margaery finds her.

"Hey! I've been looking for you. Where'd you go? The party's just getting started."

"Sorry," says Sansa, staring up into the sky. "I just wanted a bit of quiet, you know?"

"Ah. Peace and liquor--two of my favorite things." Margaery sits down next to her, and puts her hand over Sansa's. Sansa is so drunk that she doesn't even notice, at first. When she does notice, a heat creeps into her face. _Did she mean to do that? Is she as drunk as I am?_

It's almost as if Margaery can read her thoughts, for she says, "You know, I don't really drink much. I'm a bit of a lightweight. Embarrassing, really." She sighs, puts her head on Sansa's shoulder. For a moment, Sansa's heart stops beating entirely.

"You're amazing," Sansa blurts out, drunkenly. "I mean, you're a sweetheart, and I love our jokes, and I love how you call me a wolf, and--"

She feels Margaery's body tremble; she is giggling. "How drunk are you, Sansa?"

"Really drunk," admits Sansa. "Super drunk. Like, I've only been drunk once before, and I am way drunker now than I was then. Everything is bright and sloppy and I just want to kiss everyone."

"Including me?" Margaery's tone is so innocent that it takes Sansa a few moments to process the meaning of her words. When she does, she swallows, and hastily says;

"Um... yes? I guess?"

"Wow, Sansa. You don't seem very enthusiastic about the notion of kissing me." Margaery is giggling again.

_I want to climb on top of you and kiss you until my lips bleed. I want to kiss you until the sun comes up and everyone else is gone; I want to kiss you so hard that our mouths will bruise. I want to kiss you until you wake up and see the world the same way I see you._

It is the first time Sansa admits it to herself.

"But I am," she says, simply. "Who wouldn't want to kiss you?"

"Good point, my wolf," says Margaery, and she squeezes Sansa's hand. "And I am a remarkably good kisser, all things considered."

"You can't just _say_ that," says Sansa instantly, and she doesn't know whether it's the lust or the alcohol that is making her act so... boldly. And, at the moment, she doesn't care. "You have to _prove_ it."

Margaery gives a little mock gasp. "Drunken Sansa thinks she can tell me what to do?"

"No," says Sansa. "I--I'm saying... I'm saying you're really pretty and everyone probably wants to kiss you, but... I mean, you'd have to prove it to someone, right? How can I believe that you're a good kisser if you don't _show_ me?"

"I don't know if your boyfriend would like that very much," Margaery teases. Then, after a pause, she adds, "Well, he's a guy, so I suppose he'd probably _love_ it." She laughs, lifts her head from Sansa's shoulder. "Guys are all the same."

"But not you. You're... different." Sansa turns to look Margaery full in the face, and smiles, nervous despite the alcohol. "And you're a liar, too, I bet! I bet you're the worst kisser in the world, you're probably--"

"Sansa, please stop talking." And Margaery leans in and kisses her.

_She wasn't lying._

Margaery's lips are soft, her kiss softer; Sansa yields to it entirely, stars flaring behind her closed eyelids. _She's kissing me, she's kissing me, she's kissing me--Margaery Tyrell is kissing me--_

Instinctively Sansa parts her lips and she feels Margaery tense, prepare to draw away. "We're just fooling around," she whispers, lies, into Margaery's mouth, and at that the other girl smiles against her lips, reassured. She parts her mouth for Sansa's tongue, tilts her head to find a better angle, and takes control again by tugging at Sansa's hair. Sansa, always the meek one, is thrilled by this--she obediently lowers her head a fraction, guided by Margaery's hand. Their kisses become hard rather than soft; Sansa feels like a starved girl devouring a feast, and the alcohol is making her bold, reckless. She whimpers a little as Margaery bites her lip.

"You're amazing," she whispers nonsensically into Margaery's ear after coming up for air; this just seems to drive the other girl onward. They've both had too much to drink, and they both know it, but oh, this _feeling_ ; the softness of Margaery's lips, the cunning movements of her tongue, the silk of her hair. Sansa wants more, and she wants it immediately.

Sansa moves her mouth to Margaery's neck, dropping a trail of hot little kisses along her snowy skin, and the other girl gasps, but does not object. Perhaps bothered by the way Sansa has become the dominant one, Margaery pushes at Sansa's shoulders gently with both hands, leaning into her body, brushing Sansa's breasts with her own. When Sansa understands what is wanted of her, she obeys, laying back on the hard flagstone, and oh--then Margaery is on top of her, pressing her small weight down firmly, nipping at Sansa's ear.

The weight of her is marvelous, and so is the feeling of her breath on Sansa's skin, and the confident skim of her fingertips. The world has sunken to just the two of them--two hot-faced girls with whiskey on their breath and sex now undeniably on their minds, separated by only the most feeble (yet most frustrating) of fabrics, relishing in the discomfort of the cold stone steps. And Sansa wants _more_ , again; the girl who was always endlessly patient has suddenly become insatiable, and so she is tugging at Margaery's dress in an effort to get at her breasts. Margaery reaches down and yanks at the collar of her dress; it tears, and they both begin to giggle, at least until Sansa starts to kiss and nip at the tops of Margaery's breasts--and then the only sounds to be heard are Margaery's little dislocated moans.

"We--should really stop--" gasps Margaery.

"I know," whispers Sansa, but she doesn't. Instead, in a moment of madness, her hand reaches underneath Margaery's dress, briefly strokes her thigh. The other girl whimpers--and then suddenly tears herself away.

Sansa pulls herself up into a sitting position, trembling. _What did we just do?_ She'd never been so forward with anyone in her life, nor so aggressive. But the alcohol is still clouding her mind, and she doesn't know what to say.

Margaery is tugging at her dress, trying to make it semi-appropriate again. Her face is flushed red; her long hair is a mess. She is very pointedly looking everywhere but Sansa.

"I--I do that, sometimes," she says. "I just mess around, with my friends. Like with Dany. You know? We're both... drunk. Things just happen."

And Sansa feels everything she'd thought she'd grasped slipping away.

"Me too," she says, slowly. "I like... to kiss sometimes. S-sorry, Margaery, I didn't mean to--"

And Margaery turns to look at her, flashes that astonishing smile. "Don't worry about it, Sansa. It was fun. Really. And you're not such a horrible kisser yourself, you know." She pauses. "Look, I'm going to go back inside--come with me? Please?"

"I'll be inside in a few minutes," Sansa says. "Promise." Margaery gives her dress one last tug and Sansa one last smile, and leaves her there.

Sansa sits perfectly still in the dark blue predawn, staring up at the stars and thinking of how she could've filled up that sky with all the things she hadn't said.

  



	7. monsters

x.

 _It's a circle,_ Sansa thinks as she sits there on the steps, her head thrown up to the stars and a half-empty whiskey bottle clutched in one hand. _It's happened before, and now it's all happening again._

Her body is warm from the alcohol, but her heart is cold. She is drunk and embarrassed and faintly miserable; she wants a warm bed, or perhaps another drink. She thinks how amazing it is, that a person can say one thing and mean the opposite; how lies and truths can be exactly the same. _The cruelest thing you can do is pretend to care for someone more than you actually do,_ she thinks hazily. _That's the cruelest thing of all._

Sansa remembers Will, and flinches. She takes out her phone.

Will picks up almost immediately; Sansa can hear noise in the background, as if he too is at a party. "Hey! Sansa!"

Sansa searches for words and finds none. She simply breathes shakily into the phone.

He doesn't say what she expects to hear, but in the end she is so relieved that she could cry.

"It's over, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," she whispers, as if they'd ever had a chance at all--as if they weren't a country apart, and her only sixteen years old at that--as if they both didn't suffer from a need to love sad, strange girls and be healed in return. As if they'd ever had anything in common other than a broken heart. She'd looked so hard, for so long, and she'd found _nothing_ ; it was only when she'd stopped searching that Margaery had appeared, and Sansa had suddenly remembered what they'd all told her to forget. Now Sansa closes her eyes, bites back a surge of hot guilt. "I am so sorry, Will. This is my fault."

"Maybe," he says, softly. "But after what they did to you--"

"It's my fault." Sansa bites her lip, feels oddly calm. "I know they were monsters... and I know that the bad guys always win. I do, I know. But I'm a monster, too. I let them turn me into one."

"You are the furthest thing from a monster," he says, and his kindness wounds her deeper than his anger ever could.

"I kissed someone tonight."

"What's her name?"

 _He is too good for me. He always was._ "Margaery."

"What's she like?"

"I can't describe her."

"Try."

Sansa finds herself whispering. "Think of the one thing you've always wanted and could never have."

Will says nothing, and for a moment it is so silent that she can hear him breathe. The sound calms her.

"But that's what beauty is, right?" Sansa's voice trembles. "Something you want but don't deserve."

"Why do you think you can't have her?"

"Because... because it's a sin, because it's _wrong_. Because she doesn't even like girls, she just likes kissing them at parties." Sansa pauses, and then her voice breaks. "Because who could love me?"

"I did," says Will. "I still do."

Sansa puts a hand over her eyes. "Maybe I don't need love," she whispers. "Maybe I just need forgiveness."

"The only person you need forgiveness from is you."

"Why?" She asks, then. "Why are you so _good?_ "

"I've had a lot of practice," says Will, and she can tell that he is smiling. "But you know... It's a lot easier to see the good in other people. It's not so easy to see it in yourself." He seems older, wiser than his eighteen years, and Sansa suddenly feels very young.

There is a long silence. Then Sansa says timidly, "I am so sorry. None of this is your fault, so don't blame yourself. And I tried really hard, Will. I did."

"I know you did. It's okay." He pauses. "It really will be okay."

Sansa wishes she could believe him, but she's walked this road before. These paths are familiar to her, as is the feeling of sick unease in her gut, the horrible clinging shame.

 _We all dig our own graves,_ Sansa thinks. _And she taught me how._

x.  
She calls Arya next.

"Jesus Christ," comes Arya's irritated voice. "It's like, three in the morning."

"Whatever. You weren't asleep anyway."

Sansa knows her sister is grinning; she hears it in her voice. "True. Yeah, okay, guilty as charged. I'll sleep when I'm dead, I guess. What's up, loser?"

Sansa pauses for a moment, but she is still drunk enough to be reckless. "Arya, why did you forgive me?"

"For eating my fucking Greek leftovers last week? I haven't."

"You know what I mean."

There is a long silence, during which Sansa imagines a variety of painful, horrible answers. She shields her heart in preparation. But all Arya says is, "Because I couldn't not."

"You couldn't not?"

"You're my _sister_ ," says Arya, and Sansa hears the fierceness in her voice. "You're a Stark."

"Bran and Rickon," whispers Sansa, "They're _gone_. And Mom barely knows who we are."

"Talking about them won't bring them back," says Arya sharply. Sansa can hear the agony in her voice, the barely-concealed grief.

"But we have to _remember_ \--"

"What makes you think I'd ever forget?"

_This is the anger I deserve._

"It just seems like--"

"Fuck you, Sansa."

The line goes dead.

x.  
The party is dying when Sansa finally goes back inside, still a little unsteady on her feet. People are sprawled out on couches, curled up in chairs--one girl has fallen asleep in the crook of a boy's arm. _She looks so happy,_ Sansa thinks. _She looks so young._ Sansa wanders through the rooms until she at last finds the kitchen again, where Loras and Renly are sitting at the high table, still bright-eyed and mostly coherent.

"Hey, wolf girl," says Loras, grinning. "Did you miss my amazing vodka pong tournament?"

"Vodka pong?"

He frowns. "It was the highlight of the evening. Easily. Wasn't it, Renly?"

"I don't understand how you're still sitting upright," says Renly.

"Aww, Sansa," says Loras suddenly. "You've been crying."

"No, I haven't." Sansa tries to smile.

"Jesus, was our party that bad? I don't think we've ever bored someone to tears before--"

"Haven't you?" Renly smirks. "Do you remember that soirée your grandmother once threw--"

"My grandmother is an astounding woman," says Loras drunkenly. "Do not besmirch her name--"

"Well, no, she was actually the best part of the entire event. I'm talking about the guests she invited."

"She likes to network."

"I prefer drinking to networking, if truth be told."

"Yes, we know, that's why you were entirely wasted halfway through the soirée and threw up on my dad's shoes--"

"Guys."

Sansa looks up, and there is Margaery standing in the doorway, her feet bare and her dress torn. The dim light makes her look, paradoxically, even brighter than usual; her hair is tangled, her face flushed. Her eyes seem quite dark.

"Sansa," she says, and smiles. "You ready to go to bed?"

Sansa pauses for a moment, afraid. _Does she even want me near her? Is she afraid I'll try to kiss her or touch her?_ Sansa flushes, and says, "I can grab a couch--there are a million of them."

"Yeah, but my bed is comfier," says Margaery. Her voice softens. "Come on, wolf girl. Time for sleep." And she walks across the kitchen floor, in her torn dress, to take Sansa's hand.

Sansa feels herself blush even deeper, and she is acutely conscious of Renly and Loras' eyes on her. _If these feelings are a sin, why don't I judge Renly and Loras? Why do I only hate myself?_ She remembers Will's words from earlier and shivers a little. _It is easy to see the beauty in everyone but yourself._

Sansa has always been good at seeing the beauty in other people. It was her greatest strength, and her worst mistake.

They bid goodnight to Renly and Loras and then Margaery leads her by hand through the house. _She is so gentle,_ thinks Sansa, and she follows almost blindly, as if in a dream. She hopes she will remember this in the morning, the way Margaery holds her hand.

They travel through winding halls and up two sets of staircases; at last, they come upon Margaery's room. It is at least twice the size of Sansa's, and it is as lovely as Sansa had expected it to be: there is white carpet underfoot, and the giant bed is canopied, silver and blue. A full length mirror stands in the corner and there is almost no clutter. It is nearly pristine.

Margaery seems almost shy, now that they've kissed, and Sansa suddenly remembers nipping at the other girl's breasts. _I've ruined it. Every time she thinks of me, she'll think of that drunken mistake. But I thought she wanted it; she kissed me first._ Sansa swallows, looks at her feet. They are aching in the heels she wore.

"Do you want anything to sleep in?" Margaery asks softly. "And take off your shoes! Your poor feet." She is smiling, trying to pretend as though nothing has changed.

"No, thank you," says Sansa, and smiles back, an artificial expression. "I'll be fine. But thank you." She steps out of the shoes and crawls immediately into the huge bed. Margaery hadn't lied; it feels heavenly to Sansa. She closes her eyes, wills sleep to come. As always, she takes the chain from around her neck, grasps the crucifix in her palm.

Sansa feels the bed move; it is Margaery, climbing in beside her. Her entire body tenses, but the other girl does not move closer. She feels Margaery curl up under the blankets like some newborn animal, small and fragile. Sansa has a strange urge to stroke her hair.

She doesn't, of course.

For long minutes they simply lay there, Sansa memorizing the sounds of the other girl's breathing.

Both girls are perfectly still. And then;

"I'm sorry for confusing you," whispers Margaery. "I--I don't want anything to come between us. I know I haven't known you for very long, but... I don't know. It feels like I've known you forever. In some other life, maybe."

"I know," whispers Sansa back, as she stares up at the blackness of the ceiling, the crucifix clasped tightly in her hand. "I know."

"Dany likes you," Margaery murmurs. "She says you seem... brave."

"What made her think that?"

Margaery giggles. "I don't know, wolf girl. She's a bit strange, honestly, but I love her."

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut. "Do you love her? Or do you _love_ her?"

"Oh--Sansa." Margaery, always with the right thing to say, seems to be stumbling now, grasping at words. "No. I mean... she's my best friend. But that's it. I mean... I'm actually kind of dating someone, right now. He's... he's great."

_This must be how it feels to be punched in the gut._

"Oh," whispers Sansa. "Oh. You didn't... you never told me."

"It's not official. I think it will be, soon. I hope so, anyway." Margaery pauses. "Sansa... are you okay?"

 _My heart hurts._ "Yeah, Margaery. I'm fine. Why?"

Sansa feels a hand search for hers, under the blankets. Then Margaery is holding her hand again, and Sansa's breathing slowly evens out.

"Because you smile so sweetly and you speak so nicely, and your laughter is the most wonderful thing... But I don't think I've ever met a sadder person in my entire life." Margaery's hand squeezes Sansa's. "And I want to protect you... I want to keep you safe. I don't know why, but I do. I want to save you from anyone who would hurt you."

_But what if that person is you?_

"When I was little," says Sansa slowly, "I used to love stories about knights in shining armor... dragons. Fairies. Silly things. I always wished knights were real. And that one would come and save me if I ever got in trouble."

"I'm real," whispers Margaery.

"I know," whispers Sansa back. "I know."

They fall asleep like that, hand-in-hand, and when Sansa awakens to veils of golden sunlight, she realizes she's dropped her crucifix, lost it somewhere in the giant bed.

But she's still holding Margaery's hand.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	8. solace

x.  
_She looks so young when she sleeps._

Margaery's face is feline even at rest, and every so often she will purse her lips, as if she's dreaming about being kissed. Her lashes are sooty, dark against snowy skin--her eyelids are so translucent that Sansa can see the blue veins running beneath. Her hand still clasps Sansa's, and every so often it will tighten, almost as if she's afraid to let go. She breathes so lightly one might think, at first glance, that she is not breathing at all.

 _I don't even know her that well, but I feel as though I've met her before._ Sansa sits on the bed in her wrinkled skirt, makeup smeared under her eyes, gazing at Margaery. _Like something in me recognized something in her. It makes no sense._

It never does.

She feels safe there, sitting on Margaery's bed, holding Margaery's hand. And Sansa, of all people, knows how important it is to feel--to _be_ \--safe. But still, she doesn't want to be there when the other girl wakes up. She doesn't want to see the flicker of remembrance on Margaery's face, the embarrassment.

Besides, she has a headache from Hell.

So Sansa reluctantly pulls her hand away; Margaery's fingers twitch, like they sense that something is missing. Sansa gets up off the bed, a little unsteady, and smoothes down her shirt, picks up her shoes. Then she leaves the room.

x.  
_I can't believe we kissed last night,_ Sansa thinks as she winds her way through the Tyrell mansion. _I thought I was fixed--I thought I was good, I thought it was over. But the past never stays in the past. And I am the monster, no matter what Will says._

She is surprised to find Dany in the enormous kitchen, sitting by herself, reading the newspaper. The other girl is as painfully breathtaking in the morning as she was the night before; the dark circles under her eyes just make her look all the more elusive. She is toying with the dragon charm around her neck, intent on the article she's reading, and only looks up when Sansa offers a quiet "Hello."

"Oh! Hello, good morning." _Even her posh English accent is perfect,_ Sansa thinks enviously. Was there anything about the girl that wasn't flawless?

"Morning. Do you know where they keep the aspirin?"

Dany smiles knowingly. "Is it your first hangover? Here." She reaches over into her giant bag and pulls out a bottle. "Is Midol okay?"

"Yes! Thanks so much." Sansa takes two and swallows them down with a glass of water. Then she rubs her eyes.

"You poor thing. Hangovers are the worst. I'll make coffee."

And she does.

Sansa takes a sip from the mug Dany offers her and feels as though she's burned a hole through her tongue. "Hot!" She sees Dany going to drink from her own cup and says, "You can't, it's way too hot!"

But Dany smiles, takes a sip anyway. "It's okay. I like it hot."

 _Margaery was right, she is odd._ But Sansa decides she likes the dragon girl, anyway.

"So. How are you feeling, hangover aside?" Dany looks at her intently. Her eyes are wide, and such an unusual shade of blue that they appear violet. _It's almost unfair,_ thinks Sansa, _for beauty like that to exist._ And despite herself, she blushes a little under Dany's gaze. The other girl is stunning; she can't really help it.

"I'm..." For some reason, Sansa doesn't lie. "I'm absolutely awful."

"I saw the two of you," says Dany. "On the porch, I mean." She doesn't apologize, doesn't offer any judgments nor any counsel. Just says it. And then she fixes Sansa with those wide, almost violet eyes.

Sansa blushes hotly. "It was stupid. Just a drunken mistake."

"Why was it a mistake?"

Sansa looks at her, helpless. "Because it was. She was drunk, she doesn't even _like_ girls."

"How do you know that she doesn't like girls?"

"I..."

The doorbell rings, and Dany sighs. " _Finally._ I promised I'd hang around today to meet her new boy toy, and it looks like he's finally arrived. Hey. Is Margaery even awake?"

 _He's here._ Sansa feels oddly calm, composed.

"N-no. I think she's still asleep."

"Christ. I'll go get her. Can you let him in?"

"Um. Yeah, sure. Of course." Sansa finds that she is practically wringing her hands together; she takes a breath, smoothes down her wrinkled dress once more, and, knowing that she looks an absolute mess, heads for the front door.

The doorbell rings again and Sansa rolls her eyes. "I'm coming!"

She opens the door and for an absurd moment thinks a prince from one of her childhood fairy tales is standing there before her.

That is illusion is shattered, however, the moment he opens his mouth. "Who are you?"

"Sansa Stark," she says, and frowns a little, but doesn't forget her manners. "Margaery's friend. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, sure." And he moves past her into the house, leaving Sansa to follow in his wake.

There are still people yawning and fumbling into awakeness on couches and chairs; the beautiful blonde boy gives them all disgusted looks as they move through the house. Sansa smiles, as if to apologize for him, and hurries into the kitchen.

Margaery is waiting for them, Dany beside her. They are sitting at the high table, Margaery wrapped in a robe and Dany still in the pale dress from the night before. Their heads are together, bowed brown-and-gold, giggling, but both straighten up when they hear footsteps. Margaery's face lights up when she sees them, and Sansa finds herself hoping that it's _her_ Margaery is so glad to see, not this beautiful blonde buffoon.

"Joff!" Margaery darts from her seat and slips into his arms. "I missed you last night."

And Sansa feels something in her chest give out and die.

"I bet you did, babe," he says, and leans down to kiss her. Sansa watches blankly. _What were you thinking, anyway? In the fairy tales, this is exactly how it goes. The princess kisses the prince, not another princess._

"I--I have to go," says Sansa, suddenly. "Thanks for having me over, Margaery. It was nice to meet you, Dany and Joff... And please tell Renly and Loras I think they're great." She smiles.

"Hey--I'll walk Sansa out," says Dany. "I'll be back, Marg."

Margaery is looking at Sansa now, and there is a queer sadness in her eyes where there was merriment moments before. "Sansa? You're sure... You're sure you don't want to stay a little longer?"

"No, I can't, I'm sorry... I have so much reading to do for Monday."

"I understand." Margaery untangles herself from Joff's arms and goes to Sansa. She smiles, but it is a quivery sort of smile, hesitant. Then she suddenly leans in and gives Sansa a kiss on the cheek. "See you Monday. Or maybe tomorrow, if you're free?"

"Yeah, that would be great." Sansa smiles; how good she has become at this, at smiling when she'd rather cry. She picks up her purse from the table, fishes through it to find her car keys. "All right. Bye, guys."

Joff mutters something; Margaery smiles. And then Sansa heads for the door, Dany at her side.

"It'll be okay," says Dany, as they close the door to the Tyrell mansion behind them. "It really will be okay."

_That's what Will said, too. But how can they be so sure?_

Sansa walks towards her car. "I dunno, Dany. Maybe some things will just never be okay ever again."

"You don't know that."

Sansa is opening her car door when she feels a warm hand on her arm. "Hey." Dany smiles. She slips a piece of paper into Sansa's hand. "Call me when you get sick of crying over her, okay? I love her to death, but..." She pauses, and smiles. The expression is almost fierce. "I would have let you kiss me all you wanted, wolf girl."

Sansa looks at her, wordless, but Dany is already turning away, walking back towards the house.

She looks down at the paper. _Daenerys. What a beautiful name._

Sansa slips the little piece of paper into her purse. She gets into her car and starts for home.

x.  
Sansa quickly learns that Arya has not forgotten their conversation the night before.

"What is _up_ with you lately?" Demands Arya when Sansa steps through the front door. "I'm sick of pretending everything is fine, and honestly, I'm sick of trying to fix you--"

"I didn't ask you to try and fix me!" Sansa's voice is unusually shrill. Her little sister is curled up on the leather couch, but her eyes are bright and wary. Sansa stands across the room from her, clutching her purse, unsure of whether or not she should move.

"Someone has to!" Arya's voice breaks. "You pretend you're fine, but you're not. You are so not fine."

"And how on earth would you _fix_ me, Arya?"

"I'd make you stop obsessing over the past. I'd make you look into the future instead."

"Okay, but--"

"Oh, and you know how you read all the time? How you're obsessed with stories? It's _unhealthy._ They're not _real,_ Sansa. I know you want them to be, but they're not, and they never will be. Stories are not people!"

Sansa bites her lip so hard that she draws blood.

"And do you know what else I think?" Arya shouts.

" _What_ , Arya?"

"I think you cling to God just because you need to cling to _something_. Because you are just so fucking scared of who you are."

Sansa is amazed to see tears in her little sister's eyes.

"And... I've forgiven you," Arya says. "Why can't you forgive yourself?"

Sansa stands there with a bloody lip, a million thoughts careening through her head, and suddenly the answer comes to her like a brilliant flash of light. She digs her car keys out of her purse.

"Where the hell are you going now?"

"To see my brother," says Sansa, licking the blood from her lip and sliding on her shoes. "To see Jon."

x.  
It is a twenty minute drive to her brother's apartment, but it feels much longer. When Sansa finally arrives she realizes she hasn't even called to see if he'd be home. So she grits her teeth, parks her car, and walks up to his building. She presses the call button, and waits.

"Hello?"

Sansa nearly gasps with relief.

"Jon--it's me."

"Sansa? You okay? I'll be right down."

True to his word, Jon comes down to get her almost immediately. When he sees her on the steps below him, sad-eyed and trembling faintly, he pauses. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," she says. "Nothing."

He walks down the steps slowly, studying her. He is unchanged from when she'd last seen him a month ago; he still wears the same dark, stylish clothing, and his hair is still pushed away from his face in that same careless way. He looks exhausted, as though he has not slept in days, but he's always had that look--it is, absurdly, one of the things Sansa loves about him.

"What happened?" He repeats.

"Jon," she says. "There's this girl..."

Jon says nothing more. Instead he wraps his arms around her, pulls her to his chest. He doesn't let go until her trembling stops completely.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	9. pretend

x.  
"I just figured it out last night," says Sansa, clasping the cup of coffee in front of her. They are sitting in Jon's tiny kitchen, bent over the little table and drinking from steaming cups. The coffee is of the instant variety, watery and weak, but Sansa doesn't mind. "And when I woke up this morning... It was like someone had shot me in the chest." She shakes her head. "But it makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense to me."

"I--but I barely know her. And yeah, we've been inseperable but... So what? And why her? Out of the billions of people in this world, why'd it have to be her? Why'd it have to be a _girl_ \--again?"

"Sansa..." Jon hesitates, but for a moment only. "Have you ever considered that you might be--"

" _I'm not gay!_ " There are tears in Sansa's eyes again, and she fiercely blinks them away. "It's just... really ironic, right? First there was... what happened in California." Her entire self trembles. "And then we come here looking for a new start and... it happens _again_. And oh God, Jon, it's so nice to have you around again--you have no idea."

Jon smiles, just a little.

He had already been going to college in Connecticut when the disaster in California occurred, along with Robb. Their father, Ned, had decided it would be best to have the family--or what was left of it--together again. And so last summer they had packed up and moved. They'd left California, they'd left their ghosts.

Or at least, they'd tried.

"I just... This is _not_ how it went in my dreams. Or in any of the stupid books I've read. She just makes me so happy, Jon. Like I'm filled with light. But she also makes me so sad."

"I remember when you were little," says Jon, staring down at his coffee cup. "You were always so obsessed with stories. I guess you still are. I suppose--"

"Arya told me that I have to grow up, basically." Sansa puts her hands over her eyes. "She said that stories aren't people. And I know. I know they aren't. I just wish they were." She pauses.

"Because of all of this... I feel like such a freak, Jon."

"Look," says Jon, and he reaches out to put his hand over hers. "I know what it's like to feel the odd one out."

 _Of course he does. He's adopted. I should have thought of that._ Sansa flushes, ashamed.

"Hey," her brother says, suddenly. "You wanna go on a walk?"

Sansa smiles despite herself. "Yeah. Sure. To where?"

"My motorcycle is in the shop. I want to check up on it. They've been having trouble with it."

"Couldn't you just call them?"

"Naturally," says Jon. "But then I wouldn't have an excuse to take a walk with my little sister."

x.  
It is full autumn now, and the trees are shuddering blazes of color. Sansa and Jon walk through caves of leaves and across a bridge of stone; for a few minutes, Sansa can pretend that life really is a fairy tale, because the sheer beauty of the day evokes such delusions. They talk and wander and stop to pet whatever dog comes across their path. The Stark children have always had a strange affinity for canines.

"What's her breed?" asks Jon of the owner, as he crouches before a gorgeous dog with eyes as yellow as sunlight.

"Well, actually," says the owner, and he shuffles his feet a bit. "She's part wolf. Part wolf, part elkhound. And this is kind of amazing, really--she doesn't usually like strangers."

Jon shrugs. "Dogs love me. They love my sister, too."

 _A wolf,_ thinks Sansa in wonder. _She's part wolf._ Sansa kneels down on the hard ground and extends her hand. The beautiful creature sniffs her daintily, and she looks as though she is smiling.

That makes Sansa smile in return. She strokes the soft fur of her neck and the wolf-dog leans into her touch. "What's her name?"

"Don't laugh, but--well, my daughter, she's eleven years old--she named her Lady."

"Lady," says Sansa. "That's perfect."

"This is an odd thing to say, but I figured I'd ask, because she seems to like you two--do any of you know anyone who is looking for a dog? We're moving out of state soon, and we won't be able to bring her with us."

Sansa smiles fully for the first time that day. "I can take her."

"Uh, Sansa--what? Dad already let you and Arya have one dog, what makes you think he'd let you adopt another?" Jon is giving her a strange look.

 _Because she's already mine,_ Sansa thinks, as the wolf-dog licks her hand. _And she knows it._

"Because once he sees her, he'll fall in love with her," says Sansa. "He will."

And so they exchange phone numbers with Lady's owner, and Sansa promises that her father will call him soon. It is hard to pull herself away from the beautiful wolf-dog, but Jon tugs her arm until Sansa relents and follows him down the road to the motorcycle shop.

x.  
It is his voice she remembers most from the incident in the rain--that harsh, unyielding voice. And so she knows it is him, even before she sees his scarred face.

"Jon, you here for that damned bike of yours? Thing's as stubborn as you are. Refuses to run properly."

And then the large man turns, his gaze meets Sansa's, and he throws back his head. He laughs.

Sansa takes a tiny step backwards.

"Small world, isn't it? Jon, this your girlfriend? Looks a little young, but what the fuck do I know."

"Uh... have you two met, or something?"

"Or something." Sandor Clegane turns back to the bike he's working on. "We had a run-in on the road. Not this little bird's fault--someone else wasn't paying attention."

"She's my sister," said Jon slowly, "And why are you calling her a little bird?"

"She doesn't remind you of one? Tiny and nervous and bright-eyed? Maybe it's just me." Sandor twists something on the motorcycle, and there is an awful snapping sound. "Fuck. Well, anyway, your bike's still being a pain in my ass. And so are you, coming up to check on it constantly, like it's a fucking ailing child."

Jon sighs. "Do you have any idea as to when it will be fixed?"

"Give me another week," says Sandor. "If i haven't called you by next Saturday, come and get it because I'll probably have hanged myself from sheer frustration."

Sansa giggles a little. Sandor glances over at her, as though he's surprised he's made her laugh, but says nothing.

Jon and Sandor spend the next fifteen minutes discussing motorcycles while Sansa wanders the shop. _I wonder if Margaery would ever ride a motorcycle. I'd be so scared, but I'd do it if she'd ride it with me._ Sansa bites her lip. She imagines Margaery's arms around her waist, holding tightly. She begins to imagine many other things, too, some of which bring a blush to her cheeks and make her thoroughly relieved that no one can tell what she is thinking.

And then she remembers. _Margaery doesn't like me, not the way I like her. What am I doing?_

Finally they leave. Sansa waves goodbye to Sandor and the last words she hears from him are,

"Until next time, little bird."

x.  
Margaery calls her later that night, and Sansa stares at the phone for a few moments, blankly, before answering.

"Hello?" Her voice is timid, even to her own ears.

"Come over? My parents are still away... Loras is with Renly. And I'm lonely."

Sansa can't help it; she speaks the next words rather coldly. "What about Joff?"

"I... would rather see you right now."

Sansa's heart flutters in its cage of bones. "When do you want me to come over?"

"Now?"

Sansa is smiling now, smiling into the phone. "Let me pack some clothes. I'll be right over."

 _Lock your heart up,_ she thinks. _Throw the key into the sea._

x.  
Margaery greets her at the door wearing a pretty cap-sleeved dress and holding a glass of red wine. She is barefoot. And Sansa just looks at the other girl for a moment, almost wordless.

"So your parents let you come over two nights in a row?" Margaery smiles. "I like them already."

"My dad... he's just glad I'm making friends." And then Sansa blushes, because she always blushes when she's around Margaery, and follows the other girl inside.

The enormous house is silent, a sanctuary. _I can forget about Mom... I can forget about Bran and Rickon. I can forget about California... Just for a little while._ Sansa takes a breath. _Just for a little while._

"You want some wine?" Margaery's face is flushed; Sansa recalls how the other girl had mentioned she was a lightweight.

"Oh, um, I don't know..."

"Of _course_ you do," says Margaery, and pours her a rather full glass as they stand there in the kitchen. She offers it to Sansa, who takes it obediently. "Hey. Let's go to the movie room. I just got this French movie in the mail, finally... And I _really_ need to practice my French." Sansa can't help but smile; Margaery's French is flawless. But she nods, anyway.

Margaery leads her to the movie room, holding Sansa's hand.

The home theatre is undeniably impressive, with a massive screen and stadium seating. But instead of the usual requisite chairs, there are elegant plush couches and luxurious armchairs. Old movie posters line the walls. Sansa stands there staring at it all with her mouth open for a few moments before Margaery finally laughs and pulls her over to a couch.

"Sit here, wolf girl. I'll start the projector." Margaery delicately places the bottle of wine on the floor and darts away. Sansa curls up on the couch, sipping wine, entranced.

The screen flickers, comes to life. And soon Margaery is back besides Sansa, her feet curled underneath her, gazing at the screen. Sansa looks at her rather than the movie, at her perfect profile. _It almost hurts,_ she thinks. _But it almost feels good, as well._

She takes a few more tentative sips of the wine.

" _Oh,_ " whispers Margaery, "It's a love story. I love those." She glances at Sansa, and her eyes are spectacularly bright. "Don't you?"

"I love them," Sansa admits, but for some reason the thought of love stories makes her terribly sad. So she drinks more wine, until the world is brighter, and the film enjoyable rather than sad. Her French is adequate enough for her to follow along, but it is not the movie she's focusing on. Instead she watches Margaery out of the corner of her eye; the movements of her hands, the trembling smile and laugh, the fall of her hair down her back.

"This film is really beautiful," whispers Margaery into her ear. "Like you." She giggles. She is a little drunk, Sansa knows, but Sansa allows herself to flush with pleasure at the words, regardless. Perhaps there is some truth in them.

She is still reflecting upon Margaery's comment when she feels a warmth on her bare leg. It is the other girl's hand.

Sansa's breath catches; she is very careful not to move.

"Sansa," comes a surprisingly timid voice, hot in her ear. "Can we... can we play pretend, like we did last night?"

"Play pretend?" Sansa whispers back. She still looks at the movie, though she does not see it.

"You know."

"Yes," says Sansa. "Yes."

"It doesn't mean..." But Margaery's voice trails off, and suddenly Sansa feels the other girl's lips on her neck, her cheeks, hot little kisses that make Sansa instantly dizzy with desire. For a moment she sits there, languid, and then she is turning, Margaery is climbing into her lap, and the movie flows on beyond them, forgotten.

Finally their mouths find one another's; Margaery's tongue is slipping past her parted lips. and their kisses are no longer really kisses at all--they are exclamations of hunger, declarations of need. How fast it changes. One moment Margaery is tenderly kissing Sansa's warm cheek and the next they are kissing as if they hate one another, as if they seek to wound rather than to please. Sansa is half-drunk and entirely thrilled; Will always used to kiss her gently, as if she would break. She has never experienced this sort of savage affection.

"Yes," Margaery murmurs, as Sansa's mouth drops to her neck. "Yes, yes... oh!" She giggles. "You bit me, you--" And then she is unbuttoning Sansa's blouse with nimble fingers, sliding it from her shoulders. Sansa continues to kiss the other girl's neck as Margaery's hands slip around her waist. She undoes Sansa's bra clasp in one swift movement.

Sansa is not thinking; all that exists to her, now, is Margaery, and she obediently shrugs the bra off.

"You should take off your jeans," whispers Margaery, and the warmth in Sansa's belly, the heat between her legs, spreads to every part of her body. She is beginning to find that nothing feels more arousing than Margaery telling her what to do, and so she begins to fumble with the clasp on her jeans, all the while kissing Margaery with a drunken sureness. She giggles as she realizes she's having trouble with the clasp. Margaery bats her hand away and unclasps them herself, then starts to tug them off Sansa's hips.

Sansa repositions herself on the couch, lies back, and successfully pulls off her jeans. Then Margaery is on top of her again, kissing her neck, her collarbones... her breasts. Sansa can't stifle a moan at the feeling of Margaery's lips and teeth and tongue against her skin. They are both graceless, inflamed, clumsy; this just makes Sansa love it even more.

 _This isn't like how I imagined,_ she thinks, as Margaery bites her breast. _It's better._

Sansa has only ever gone so far with one other person, and that was... different. She closes her eyes, trying to evade the memory.

Margaery senses the change in her, and lifts her head. "Sansa?" She whispers. "Are you all right?"

Margaery's hair is falling over her concerned eyes, and her lips are wet, shiny. "I'm fine," Sansa whispers. And then she pulls Margaery's shoulders towards her, kisses her on the mouth over and over, until at last the other girl pulls away for a moment.

"Take off my dress," she whispers--commands--into Sansa's ear. And Sansa immediately begins unbuttoning the dress with clumsy, hurried fingers, while Margaery sits across from her, breathing heavily. Finally she has finished with the last button, and Margaery shrugs out of the pretty dress, throws it carelessly to the floor. She is not wearing a bra. For a moment Sansa marvels at the loveliness of her body--the high breasts, the outline of her rib vage, the slim waist, the immaculate skin. _What are we doing?_

"You're so beautiful," murmurs Sansa, truthfully, and Margaery does something Sansa has never seen her do before--she blushes.

"Not as beautiful as you, wolf girl," whispers Margaery. She is crawling towards Sansa again, and suddenly their bare breasts are pressed up against one another, and the feeling of it is nearly enough to drive Sansa mad.

"You're wearing too much," whispers Margaery, in between sloppy, starved kisses, and Sansa laughs. She is only wearing a pair of tiny boy shorts.

"Are you sure?" She whispers back.

"Absolutely positive." Margaery pushes at her shoulders as she did the night before, telling her to lay back, and Sansa does. She lies with her back flat on the couch, and Margaery begins to trail kisses down her neck again, between her breasts, down her stomach... Then her mouth is at the other girl's abdomen, and she is tugging the boy shorts off of Sansa's hips, and Sansa is gasping, sure that this is a dream, that this cannot _possibly_ be real--

Suddenly Sansa is very naked, but she doesn't have much time to think about it, because Margaery is nudging her legs apart with her knee, and then she is bending over Sansa, trailing kisses lower and lower, again. And then she is kissing her--there.

Sansa cries out, she can't help it, because her entire body is on _fire_ , and Margaery's head is between her legs, and her tongue--

Everything is heat, and the darkness is heavy and sweet on her bare skin. Sansa cannot tell where she ends and Margaery begins; Sansa's body shudders under the other girl's touch, and her hands are twisted deep, almost painfully so, in Margaery's hair. And the other girl has found _that spot_ , and Sansa thinks with a vivid clarity that it would be fine enough to die, die in this instant, because she has never felt anything so succinctly marvelous. Margaery is inexperienced and unskilled and entirely lovely, and she coaxes Sansa to the brink of something that she has never felt before, something that would make Sansa blush if she were not completely and utterly on fire.

One last stroke of Margaery's tongue is all that it takes: Sansa stifles her wordless cry, her bones melt, her hands tighten in the other girl's hair. And then she falls back onto the couch, chest heaving, dizzily unsure of what has just occurred.

They do not move for a few moments. Then Margaery crawls up next to Sansa, almost timid, blushing like a chastised child. "You liked it?"

"Margaery." Sansa pulls the other girl to her and kisses her mouth, long and deep. And Sansa sudenly knows.

_Oh. She does have feelings for me, she does, but she's afraid._

Margaery nestles into Sansa's arms. "I... I don't usually do things like this," she whispers.

"Neither do I," murmurs Sansa.

"In fact... you were the first..."

"I was?" Sansa's heart is thudding painfully in her chest. "But-- _why_ \--"

"I was just planning to kiss you, wolf girl," admits Margaery. "But--then I couldn't... I couldn't stop." She pauses. "I don't know why."

Sansa has a sudden thought. " _Joffrey--_ "

She feels Margaery cringe. "I know. Please, don't mention him. Please don't ruin this."

Sansa falls silent again.

"What does this mean, Sansa?" Margaery asks, eventually.

"I don't know," whispers Sansa in return.

"I mean, I'm not--" Margaery pauses. She lays her palm flat on Sansa's stomach. "I'm not... you know... _gay_ , or anything. I think it's maybe just because... I don't know. I just care about you... I want to protect you, for some reason... I got so drunk. And things just happen when that happens, you know? Sansa... I feel _safe_ when I'm with you. Like I'm home."

Sansa's mouth is dry; she cannot speak.

"It's like being home," whispers Margaery.

 _I can only have her in the dark,_ Sansa thinks, and her very heart shudders.

_But It's better than not having her at all._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	10. rebirth

x.  
When Sansa awakens, she is naked, and Margaery is kissing her neck.

 _I must be dreaming,_ she thinks. _And this is the nicest dream..._

"Sansa," Margaery is whispering, in between kisses. "Teach me."

"What time is it?" Sansa murmurs, rubbing her eyes with one hand and stroking Margaery's arm with the other. It is completely dark in the movie theatre, and her eyes are adjusting like an animal's to the blackness. Margaery's hair is silken against her bare skin.

"Three--or four--" Margaery kisses her ear, and Sansa giggles sleepily. "I don't know why. Why? Teach me."

"Teach you what?" Sansa pauses. "You're still drunk, aren't you?"

"I think so," Margaery whispers. Her voice is slightly slurred. "I want to _play_ more. Teach me how to... touch you." She pauses, now, too. "Are you still drunk?"

"I think so."

"Then... it's fine." Margaery kisses the corner of Sansa's mouth. "It's fine. Just teach me."

Sansa blushes, even in the darkness. "I've only... been with one... girl. Person." She closes her eyes, as if that will make her blind to the horror of the memory. "I'd like to learn all over again. If that's okay."

It is so easy to forget God, to forget guilt, laying there with Margaery's skin against hers, the other girl's lips all over her neck, her face. _I must be drunk,_ Sansa thinks. _Because I feel free._ Margaery is different when she's been drinking: the vividness is still there, but the careful composure is gone. She is still exciting, vibrant, loving. But there is an added dimension. _Her walls are destroyed._

"I haven't been with anybody," whispers Margaery, and for some reason this shocks Sansa, that the alluring older girl she met on the first day of school is less experienced than she is. It's almost as if she can read Sansa's mind, for Margaery adds, "Is that surprising to you?" She pauses, her mouth hovering over Sansa's collarbone, and all Sansa wants to do is to drunkenly kiss her lips over and over, until they are raw.

"A little," Sansa whispers back.

It hadn't been one of Sansa's dreams, to lose her virginity before she even turned eighteen.

But then again, she doesn't even think that first time counted, really.

"What was her name?"

"It doesn't matter," Sansa whispers. "She's not you."

Margaery giggles, and her mouth captures Sansa's, for a moment--and then she draws away, coyly. "I changed my mind, wolf girl." Her hands strokes Sansa's belly. "I want _you_ to touch _me_." She lowers her voice. "I _command_ you." And then she is giggling again, though her giggles turn to gasps when Sansa wriggles lower, puts her mouth to Margaery's breast.

 _I really am still drunk,_ Sansa realizes. _Because all I care about is touching her, I'm not even afraid, I'm not--_

Margaery sighs and thrusts her chest upwards into Sansa's mouth. Her hands goes to the other girl's hair and strokes it back, eliciting a shiver that creeps all the way down Sansa's spine. And then Sansa does what Margaery has _commanded_ her--she touches her--she makes the older girl squirm and gasp and moan, she traces images on Margaery's skin with her fingertips, she teaches her a new language. Despite the effects of the wine, she is extraordinarily gentle now ("You're too sweet, wolf girl," Margaery sighs) and she goes slowly, as if time does not matter, does not exist.

But of course it does.

For too soon, morning comes, and the light in Margaery's eyes is replaced by sober comprehension. Sansa sees it occur, slowly, and so she coaxes the other girl to sleep, hoping that dreams will make it last a little longer for the both of them.

But her sleep is deep and black.

x.  
She awakens again a few hours later, shivering, in a tangle of limbs. It is so chilly in the theatre that goosebumps have risen along her arms. Margaery's breathing is still even, though she trembles a little from the cold like some small animal, and she clasps Sansa to her for warmth. The hazy glow the wine had offered her is entirely gone; now Sansa is painfully conscious of their naked bodies, the gentle purr of Margaery's breathing, the memory of what they'd done just hours ago.

She reaches for her blouse and tucks it over the other girl. _She looks so young when she sleeps,_ Sansa thinks again, and finds that she can't move. Margaery is clinging to her for warmth, and her rest seems so sweet that Sansa doesn't want to disturb her. So she lays there, and shivers, and part of her is bold enough to hope that when Margaery wakes up, she'll see acceptance in her eyes.

It is a silly thing to hope for, of course. Because when Margaery stirs, slowly, eyelids fluttering open, Sansa knows instantly that nothing has changed.

"Sansa..." Margaery blinks. "What..."

Sansa bites her lip, hard. "Yeah?"

"What... I mean..." Margaery pauses, and Sansa senses the fear in her. "Joff can't know."

"Okay, "Sansa whispers. She feels as though something inside of her has shriveled up and died.

"Wolf girl, I'm sorry," Margaery says. "But I'm not..." She squeezes Sansa's hand. "You know."

"I know," Sansa says, even though she doesn't.

Margaery reaches over to touch her hair. "You're so sweet. Thank you. Thanks for being here."

 _But I'm not here anymore,_ Sansa thinks, sadly. _I'm gone._

x.  
_You have nothing,_ Sansa thinks to herself as she drives home. _Not your little brothers, your little sister, your mom. Not Margaery. Nothing._

She is too sad to cry.

The first thing Sansa hears when she gets out of her car is an unfamiliar bark, followed by a very familiar laugh. _Jon._

She hurries into the backyard, closing the fence behind her. Across the grass, on the large patio, there is a gathering of people. And two dogs. One is a lovely blue-eyed husky who is darting around Arya's legs, and the other is a grey wolf-dog who prowls the group, delicately sniffing everyone's hands in turn.

Sansa's face breaks into a smile; she can't help it. _Lady._

"Hey, Sansa!" Jon has spotted her. "Look who came to visit." He is standing beside Lady's owner, and their father, Ned.

"Hey, guys," says Sansa, her eyes on Lady. The dog has spotted her now, and comes trotting forward, her tail wagging expectantly, though Sansa can see a wariness in the way she approaches. "Hey, pretty girl." She kneels, extends a hand. "Pretty girl."

Lady sniffs her in a rather ladylike way, yellow eyes curious. And then her tail begins to wag a little faster. _She remembers me._ Sansa's heart aches as the dog leaps forward and begins to lick her face. _She loves me and she doesn't even know me._

"Do you like her, Sansa?"

Sansa's head jerks upwards in disbelief, startled. _There's no way--_

But no, there _is_ a way, there must be, because it's her mother sitting there on the patio, wrapped in a shawl, her beautiful blue eyes less foggy than Sansa has seen them in months. Sansa hadn't even noticed her; she is so thin now, so insubstantial. But it's her.

_She said my name._

"Mom?" Sansa's voice is timid, afraid.

"Her eyes," says her mother, "They're beautiful." She does not smile, but there is recognition in her face, a steadiness to her voice. For a moment Sansa forgets to breathe. Her throat aches so much that she finds she cannot speak. _She's here, her mind is here, and she loves you, she doesn't hate you after all, even after what you did. She still loves you._

Sansa buries her face in Lady's fur and hugs the dog close. For a long time they sit like that, wolf and girl, as if they understand one another perfectly. As if they are the same creature.

x.  
"Nymeria!" Arya calls, and the husky goes bounding towards her. "Lady!" And Lady goes trotting after her, too.

Sansa and Catelyn sit on the patio, watching them play. Ned and Jon have gone inside to prepare dinner. The Sunday evening is pleasant and cool, and Sansa has never been so grateful. _Thank you, God, for bringing her back._ Her fingers reach for her crucifix and grasp only air. She remembers that she lost it somewhere in Margaery's bed.

"I'm so sorry, Sansa," says her mother suddenly, and Sansa turns to look at her. She is still beautiful, even withered by grief. "I will never be able to make up for the fact that I left you when you needed me the most. I'm still not entirely... better. But I'm here." Sansa can hear the struggle in her voice.

Sansa says nothing. The psychiatrist had said that her mother spiraled into a catatonic depression after the deaths of Sansa's little brothers. But Sansa had never thought to blame her. Arya had, for a while. Jon and Robb had simply distanced themselves, ensconced themselves within their own special grief.

Her mother had always been the strong one. It had been terrible, to look into her eyes and see nothing of that powerful woman there. Sansa had thought, at one point, that she was gone for good. Now she feels ashamed for having ever believed such a thing.

"I will never leave you again."

Sansa blinks, and the tears spill hot all down her face.

x.  
It is later that night, and Sansa is curled up on her bed, reading, with Lady and Nymeria both dozing at her feet The bed is not big enough for all three of them to lay comfortably, but Sansa can't bring herself to shoo either of them away.

Her phone rings, and Sansa glances over and sees the screen. Margaery T.

Her breath catches, and her fingers twitch. She reaches for the phone, and then stops herself. _You can't. You can't answer it._ Sansa stares at it, frozen, until at last it stops ringing.

She lets out a breath.

And then she suddenly knows what to do.

Sansa picks up her phone, heart beating very fast. She finds the number, presses 'call', and holds the phone to her ear. It rings once, twice. Three times.

Sansa waits.

And then--

"Hello?"

Something blooms, warm and pleasant, in her chest.

"Hey," says Sansa, and she smiles. "Hey, Dany. It's me. Sansa."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	11. shame

x.  
Sansa awakens the next morning with Lady curled at the end of her bed and a text from Dany awaiting her.

Despite everything, she can't help but smile.

She rolls onto her back and opens the text. It reads:

"Ready for tonight? Fair warning... Sometimes I'm kind of intense."

Sansa gives a half-nervous, half-excited giggle. She knows Dany is only seventeen, less than a year older than her, but she makes Sansa feel so _young_. She is just so worldly, with that lovely accent and unique style, the braids in her golden-white hair. She is, really, unlike anyone Sansa has ever met.

_But then, so is Margaery._

Sansa tries to ignore that fact. She tries to forget it.

And really, she has just become so good at forgetting.

x.  
Her mother is cooking breakfast when Sansa comes down the stairs. Sansa pauses to watch her on the stairwell, the way her mother's hands deftly chop up peppers and crack eggs, pour milk and flip pancakes. She doesn't like cooking, Sansa knows, yet here she is.

Something flutters in Sansa's chest. It takes her a moment to realize what it is that she's feeling. But then she glances down into Lady's bright eyes and knows.

Happiness.

x.  
_How can I be both happy and sad at once?_ Sansa wonders as she drives to school. _Why would I get my mother back after all that I've done?_

She feels dizzy, lightheaded. Nothing in the world is making sense; the pieces are not fitting together. Maybe they are not meant to. Sansa doesn't know. She's beginning to realize that she knows almost nothing, and half the things that she thought she knew, she did not really know at all.

 _Even Dany,_ she thinks. _What am I doing? Why did I call her?_ She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. _Because I need someone. I need.. a friend._

But the trick to being a good liar is to believe your own lies, and Sansa, for all her poise and courtesy, has never been one for true deception.

"That Gendry guy is so fucking lame, by the way," Arya announces into the silence. "I think he's trying to send me some kind of message. My window faces his and sometimes he'll hold up signs when he sees I'm looking."

"I _told_ you," says Sansa. "He likes you, not me." She pauses. "What exactly do these signs say?"

"He's talking shit about the neighbors, basically." Arya puts her heels up on the dashboard, a habit she knows Sansa hates. "Actually. You know what. He's actually kind of funny."

"That's _adorable_ ," says Sansa, knowing it's the last thing her sister wants to hear.

Arya punches her in the arm.

"Hey! Do you want me to get into another accident? I'm just saying that this blossoming romance is totally sweet. Please do keep me posted."

Another punch in the arm. But then Arya begins to giggle, and Sansa does, too, and soon they are both laughing, Margaery and Dany and all the sins of the past momentarily forgotten.

x.  
Sansa is congratulating herself on successfully avoiding Margaery when that sinuous voice calls out at the end of her English literature class.

"Miss Stark? I'd like a word with you."

Sansa's spine stiffens, but she obediently picks up her school bag and walks up to baelish's desk as the rest of the girls file out of the classroom. She'd skipped first period--again--with Margaery last Friday. Her grades are still spectacular, however, and she'd just gotten an A+ on her first essay. She doesn't know why Baelish is calling her up to him once again, and doesn't really want to know why, either.

Sansa stands before him, tugging awkwardly at her skirt as though trying to make it longer. His gaze travels slowly from her ankles upwards and she cannot help but blush.

 _It's like he can see under my clothes,_ she thinks, not for the first time, and this just makes her flush all the more fiercely.

"You missed Friday's class, again," he says finally, just when Sansa thinks she can no longer bear his eyes and the silence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baelish. I was..."

"You were?"

"... With a friend." Sansa remembers Margaery holding her hand and blushes even deeper.

"At least you're honest." He sounds amused, not angry. "Well, regardless, you missed an important day. They paired up for the semester's big project. But there's an uneven number of people in the class, I'm afraid."

 _Oh, no,_ thinks Sansa, remembering his hand on her leg, the weight of his stare. _Maybe I am being punished after all._

"I can do it by myself," she says, instantly. "It won't be a problem, Mr. Baelish."

"Yes, you will do it by yourself," he replies, still sounding faintly amused. "Under my supervision. You'll need a partner of some sort."

"I... yes, okay. I understand. I'm sorry for skipping your class, sir."

"Honestly..." Baelish leans forward in his chair. "I don't blame you a terrible amount. Even though it's an A.P. class, your work is exceptional--you make it look easy. But unfortunately, you do need a partner for this project, and it's the only section that I'm teaching, which leaves me as your only option." He pauses. "Are you free after school?"

 _Dany,_ Sansa thinks.

"Until five."

"Good." Baelish leans back into his seat and gives her that lazy, catlike smile. "I'll be in my office."

Sansa manages a smile in return, though she is acutely aware of his eyes on her as she leaves, of the way they burn right through her clothes.

x.  
She spends lunch in the library. It is quiet and peaceful and even more importantly, Margaery is nowhere to be found.

Sansa feels the fluttering happiness she'd experienced this morning be replaced by a dull, ceaseless ache.

x.  
She arrives at Baelish's office at approximately 2:45, after having arranged for a friend to drive Arya home. Sansa stands outside his door feeling horribly self-conscious and bizarrely nervous, though she doesn't fully understand why. It takes all of her courage just to knock on his door.

When Sansa's teacher opens the door, he smiles. The smile does not reach his eyes.

"Come in," he says, beckoning. His office is beautiful, as all the rooms in Providence are, with stone underfoot and wood paneling on the walls. There are bookshelves everywhere; Sansa itches to inspect them, despite herself. Baelish sees her looking, and laughs. "Feel free to take a quick glimpse. They're not all mine, though, I'm afraid--so do be gentle."

Sansa places her school bag on the ground and walks over to one of the bookshelves. _Nabokov, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy..._ She'd always wanted to read Dostoyevsky, but had never gotten the chance. Her fingers trace the spine of the book. _There's nothing like a story for helping you escape real life._

"Did you bring the book you chose to do your project on?"

"Yeah," says Sansa, turning reluctantly away from the bookshelf. "I chose Lolita."

For some reason this makes him smile. "Why that one?"

Sansa blushes, again. "Because the writing is incredible, I think. The things he does with words, it's just..." She trails off. "It's beautiful. To me." She looks up from her hands to find him looking at her and the room suddenly feels much too small.

"I'm glad that you see the beauty in his prose," says Baelish, and he beckons for her to sit in the little chair next to his. On his fine oaken desk there is a laptop, countless books, and papers strewn about everywhere. Sansa sits down shyly. She is not a shy person, not usually, but something about Baelish makes her feel hesitant and insecure. _He sees too much, knows too much,_ thinks Sansa. _And I don't know how that is._

Baelish explains the project to her in depth, and all the while Sansa is uncomfortably aware of the nearness of him, of the heat of his body. She sits, tense, wishing her skirt was longer, that she'd worn tights rather than knee socks.

"Any questions?" He says, finally, turning towards her. She notices that his face is completely unlined. _How old is he?_ She wonders. _Thirty? Younger?_ The subtly feline nature of his features reminds her of Margaery, and she squirms a little under his gaze.

"No," she manages. "I understand. Thanks."

"You know." Sansa feels a pressure on her knee. His hand. "I think we'll make a fairly good team, Miss Stark." He turns, flicks through a sheaf of papers with his free hand while the other squeezes the bare skin of Sansa's knee.

Her face is hot, her shame hotter.

 _Is this what I deserve?_ It can't be.

"Y-yes," says Sansa. "Maybe."

His hand slips up her thigh, though his voice has that amused lilt to it again. "Just 'maybe'?"

"No," says Sansa, clearing her throat. "I'm sure we will, Mr. Baelish."

"Sansa," says her teacher, "You know, you can call me Petyr here."

"Mr. Bael--Petyr, I need to go now. I have plans. But thank you."

His eyes have gone cool again, distant and unreadable. "Of course," he says. "I shouldn't have kept you for so long." He draws his hand down along her thigh.

Sansa stands the instant he stops touching her. She is sure that her face is burning red, and is clumsy as she bends over to pick up her school bag. She heads for the office door, says a quick goodbye. She does not look back.

Once out in the hall, Sansa begins to breathe shakily. She finds the nearest bathroom and locks herself inside of a stall. For a few long moments, she does not move.

 _Is this what I deserve?_ Sansa remembers his hand on her leg, the coolness in his voice. He'd touched her as though he _owned_ her. Suddenly Sansa cannot bear it anymore, and she swings the door open, rushes to the nearest sink.

She washes her hands until they are red and raw.

 

 

 

* * *

 


	12. brave

x.  
If Margaery is a ghost from Sansa's past, then surely Dany must be something from one of Sansa's dreams.

She pulls up outside of Sansa's house in a black Jeep Cherokee at five after five. Sansa is watching from the window, as nervous as she was before knocking on Baelish's door. But this time she feels giddy, not ill, and it's the strange dragon girl she's waiting on, not the overly-familiar English teacher. Baelish, she has tried to push from her mind. She will not let him ruin _this_.

Sansa darts downstairs when she spots the other girl getting out of her car, and hurries to the front door. Neither of her parents are home; the house is empty, as Arya is out with her new band of heathen friends. When the doorbell rings and Sansa opens the door, she feels embarrassingly breathless.

_She is just your friend._

But then Sansa remembers how Dany had spoken on the phone, and smiles, despite herself.

The other girl smiles back.

She's such a little thing--waif-like, really, but she holds her chin high and stands with her shoulders back, the odd dragon necklace trembling beneath her collarbones. Today she is wearing a short, well-constructed black dress with the same worn black boots she'd worn to Margaery's party. Her long blonde hair falls down her back, and there are half a dozen tiny braids in it; her astonishing eyes appear almost violet in the light. She looks like some sort of queen.

"Hello, wolf girl."

"Hi, Dany."

There's something undeniably exotic and _cool_ about the blonde; Sansa just can't put her finger on what, exactly, it is. But it gives her chills.

_She's Margaery's best friend, though._

Sansa tries not to think about it.

"Would you like to come in?" Sansa finds herself feeling warm underneath the other girl's almost-violet stare.

"No, thanks, that's okay. We should get going, yeah? So much to do, and so little time." Dany pauses. "Are your parents going to kill me if I get you home late?"

"Probably."

"That's okay. I'm used to that sort of thing." Dany smiles, and there's almost a ferocity to it.

"Do you take a lot of girls out?" Sansa blurts it out without thinking.

"No," says Dany, still smiling. "Not lately. Just you."

 _This really is a date,_ thinks Sansa, and is not sure whether it is fear or excitement creeping down her spine. _Can I really do this? Because I'm not--I'm not--I mean, I told Jon that I wasn't--_

Dany extends one delicate hand, and Sansa puts her own into the other girl's. Unexpectedly, Dany pulls Sansa towards her, and Sansa feels breathless all over again as she looks into the blonde girl's eyes.

"Look," says Dany, "You really don't have to be afraid. You're with me."

 _I'm with her._ Maybe that should scare her a little, but it doesn't.

x.  
Dany shows her places that she didn't even know existed.

Little hidden music shops, independent bookstores, an Ethiopian restaurant on the outskirts of town. They hold hands while paging through cookbooks (Dany likes spicy food; Sansa prefers Italian) and browsing through the records of bands that Sansa has never heard of (though Dany seems to know them all, and which of their songs are best, too.)

They take their dinner to a little lake behind the restaurant, bury their feet in sand. It's chilly, so Dany wraps a blanket around the both of them that she had sitting in the back of her Jeep. They sit, shoulder to shoulder underneath the blanket, and eat.

_This is how it should have been, with Margaery._

And still, even now, there is a part of Sansa that is guilt-stricken, terrified. Her ghosts have chased her even here; when she blinks, she sees the past underneath her eyelids, the girl with the sunny brown hair who she'd thought she knew. She sees a burning building, the cruelly lovely flames. She sees the flowers slipping from her mother's fingers. She sees fierce little Rickon and brave Bran and a home she'll never have again.

But when Dany takes her hand underneath the blanket, and gives it a squeeze, Sansa doesn't pull away.

x.  
"What do you think about love, Dany?"

It is dark and cold, and they've built a small bonfire on the beach. Dany had known what to do; _she always knows what to do,_ Sansa thinks. They'd made the fire within minutes. Dany seems to like the flames. She watches them dance with a tiny smile on her face.

They sit there, curled up under the blanket, still holding hands. Sansa is trying not to think of Margaery, and Dany, well--Sansa can't tell what she's thinking, but she seems... peaceful.

"Love?" The word is beautiful when Dany says it.

"Yes," says Sansa. "Love."

"I've never been in love," says Dany, "So I don't know much about it."

Sansa is perplexed. She'd thought the older girl would have known.

"Why do you ask?"

The stars are cold and high, and the wind a little bitter as it comes in off the lake. Sansa shivers, but she likes it. _Winter is coming._ It has always been her favorite season.

"Because..." Sansa pauses. "I... I don't know."

"Yes, Sansa," says Dany, softly. "You know why you asked."

"You're right." Sansa swallows. "Because I'd thought I was in love, before. Last year, before I moved here. But now.. I'm not so sure. Can something be a lie and be true at the same time?" Her voice begins to tremble, faintly, but she continues on. "Can you love someone who hurts you?"

"Everyone we love hurts us eventually." Dany suddenly sounds sad, and Sansa wonders if the blonde girl's past is as dark as her own.

"But... can you love someone who never loved you?"

"Unrequited love?" Dany sounds thoughtful. "That seems like the truest love of all."

"Why?"

"Because... Sansa. It doesn't ask for anything, you know? It doesn't _need_ anything. It's just there. It's just love. Loving for the sake of loving." Dany pauses and smiles, wryly. "But what do I know? I'm just a young girl."

 _Loving for the sake of loving._ Sansa shivers.

"You know," whispers Sansa, "When I was little, I thought that this knight would come and rescue me and sweep me away to some castle and we'd live happily ever after. The thing I never told my parents..."

Dany's breathing is deep and steady, comforting.

"I never told them that my knight was really a girl."

"You don't need a knight to save you," Dany murmurs. "All you need is you."

"I know," whispers Sansa, turning towards Dany, thrilled that the other girl understands. "That's what I'm realizing, you know, that I've got to save myself, that--"

Dany's lips brush Sansa's, so softly, silencing her. Then she slowly draws away.

"Be your own hero, wolf girl."

"I'm trying." Sansa is still stunned by the ghost of Dany's lips on hers. "I seriously, honestly am. I'm trying."

Dany smiles, and the fire throws trembling light all over her perfect face. "And that's all you can do. Try."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	13. lies

x.  
Late afternoon sunlight pours through the window, setting fire to the red in her big brother's hair. Robb has her mother's coloring, the unblemished white skin and endless blue eyes. Girls (and boys) love him, Sansa knows, love his careless laugh and broad shoulders, his impressive height. He has a warmth to him, an ease with people.

But he also has an undeniable sense of command, an authority that Sansa has almost always deferred to. Now he looks at her, serious beyond his years, and his tone of voice echoes their father's.

"You wanted to talk."

 _He looks like Mom, but he sounds just like Dad._ Sansa forces herself to meet her brother's gaze.

"Yeah," she says, softly. "I do."

Jon comes in from the next room, sits down at the table with them. His apartment suddenly feels too small for the three of them, and it doesn't help that Lady is there, too, sprawled out at Sansa's feet. Sansa wants to reach down and touch her fur for comfort, for strength, but resists.

"I just..." She pauses. "I don't really know what to do."

Sansa takes a deep breath.

"Okay. I just... okay. I can't go to my friends with this. I don't know _who_ to go to, so I'm going to you. The truth is... I'm dating someone, and it's... complicated. It's so complicated in so many ways. Because... I mean, for one, I don't know if what I'm doing is okay or not—if it’s wrong. And secondly, I kind of still like someone else, too. Not to mention that I have to keep this a secret from the girls at school, or I might risk social suicide. And..." Sansa bites her lip; this is the part she does not want to say. "...I don't even know. I don't even know if I _should_ be happy."

"Sansa." Jon is looking at her with compassion in his grey eyes. "It's okay."

She wishes she could believe him.

They've always been close, the three of them. _They've always protected me._ Sansa does not want to think about it, the fact that there are so many things her brothers cannot save her from. She knows the knowledge bothers them far more than it bothers her.

"Slow down," says Robb. "What exactly is going on?"

Sansa glances at Jon, and reads it on his face: he already knows. She shies away from the kindness in his glance. For a few moments, she remains silent, uncertain if she is making the right choice.

"It's a girl," says Sansa, finally. She's surprised at the ease with which the words leave her lips. "I'm dating a girl."

Robb glances over at Jon; it is clear _he_ did not expect this, and that he is at a loss for words. The surprise on his face makes Sansa want to cringe. _Don't you remember California?_ She thinks. _Don't you remember my pretty friend, the one you liked so much? And don't you remember what I did?_

Of course he remembers; he will never forget. Sansa conjures up Bran's face in her memory, and her throat is dry.

"So," says Robb. "You're dating a girl. And why is that inherently wrong, exactly?"

Sansa feels the ridiculous urge to throw her arms around him.

"Oh, Robb. You _know_ why."

Robb grins. "You know Jon and I haven't been Christian in years. I'm essentially a heathen." He pauses. "You'll see it someday, Sans. There's nothing wrong with being who you are."

 _How do you know?_ Sansa wants to ask him, but can't. _How can you be so sure?_

"Who is she?" Jon asks. "The girl from before?"

Robb looks slightly miffed that he's been left out of the loop, but graciously says nothing.

"No," says Sansa. "This is her... this is someone else. I mean, it's super casual, I barely know her. We're just hanging out." She bites her lip. "But I can't _tell_ anyone. You know... you know what happened, last time. I _can't._ " Heat floods her face; this was the one thing she did not want to bring up, yet finds she cannot avoid it. Suddenly her brothers are all too close, and she flinches away from the memory as much as she flinches away from them.

"Catholic school is depraved," says Jon simply.

"Sansa," says Robb, gently. "Not everyone is out to get you. Not everyone will be like them."

"No," says Jon, defending her. "She's right. Trust me, Robb. You wouldn't know. You've never been bullied." Sansa looks into her adopted brother's eyes, sees a poignant recognition there. _He understands me, somehow, even though we're so different._ Still, Sansa senses that Jon isn't finished, that he's going to go on to say something that will be as awful and vivid as truth, something that she can't hide from. She isn't wrong.

"If you think you shouldn't tell them," says Jon, "Then go with your gut. But what are you hiding, anyway? The fact that you're dating a girl, or the fact that you like girls and aren't comfortable with it?"

The silence that descends is so oppressive and complete that Sansa wants to disappear. Instead, she lifts her chin.

"Look," continues Jon, "It's okay if you don't tell your friends. It's okay if you lie to them, even. But come on, Sansa. You can't lie to yourself."

 _He sees everything,_ thinks Sansa. _And he always says the difficult things._ But she says only,

"I know."

"And _yes,_ " says Jon, "You deserve to be happy. But _you_ have to believe that, okay?"

There is a sea of distance between them now, for that is precisely the one thing that Sansa cannot believe. She knows better than to think she is an innocent. _They love me,_ she thinks, _So they don't see._ Love is blind, after all.

"I miss them," is all that she says. "I miss them so much."

"So do I," Robb says, clearly pained. He hates being helpless more than anything, and their little brothers’ deaths render him completely powerless. "Sometimes I dream about the fire."

"We all miss them," murmurs Jon.

"If I could, I would give up my life for theirs. I'd do it in an instant." Sansa does not know why she says it, but she does.

"Come on, Sansa," says Robb, rather fiercely. "We need you, too."

Sansa wants to lean her head on his shoulder and cry; instead, she straightens her shoulders. She looks at her two remaining brothers; Jon, slender and dark, and Robb, blue-eyed and auburn-haired. They sit there quietly, expectant, and for once they are both wearing the same expression.

"I know," she says. _Be strong, like Robb._ "I know you do."

Jon puts his hand over hers in that way of his. His silence is as reassuring, somehow, as all of the words in the world.

x.  
Sansa has been going out with Dany for a week and a half when the inevitable occurs.

"I have to tell her, you know," the blonde girl says, over bowls of pho at a Vietnamese restaurant. "She's my best friend. But it shouldn't be too big of a deal. She'd have told me if she had feelings for you. She tells me everything."

Sansa shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"No, honestly, she does. And she is pretty into the idea of dating Joffrey right now, unfortunately.” Dany pauses, her expression fierce. "I'm sorry, Sansa, this is tricky. I wasn't thinking things through when I asked you out. But I couldn't help myself." She suddenly smiles. "I guess I'm like Margaery in that way--I always go after what I want."

Sansa feels a fluttering warmth inside of her, overwhelming the hesitance. "That's why I like you, I suppose."

Dany arches an eyebrow. "You suppose?"

"Well, I like you for so many reasons that it's hard to choose just one," says Sansa sweetly.

The other girl laughs. Her laughter is nearly as lovely as her smile. Sansa has, really, found very few faults in Dany in the few weeks she's known her; the other girl is bold, proud, and sweet all at once. She has an ease about herself that echoes Robb-- _She is so sure_ , Sansa thinks enviously, _of who she is._

"You always know what to say, Sansa."

Sansa blushes underneath the other girl's gaze. "Sometimes I do." She pauses. "And... I totally understand. We're just having fun, but... She's your best friend."

"I _have_ to be honest with her," says Dany. Then she pauses with her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Is school still weird?"

"A little," Sansa says. She has not told Dany about the night in the movie theatre, and that omission feels oddly like a lie. "She pretends nothing ever happened. But we don't hang out as much as we did."

Dany frowns. "Oh, Sansa. I'm sorry. I hope everything goes back to normal soon."

 _What is normal?_ wonders Sansa. _I couldn't stop thinking about her from the day we met._

"I'm sure it will," she says, but does not believe it. When she thinks of Margaery something transient aches in her chest, almost like a memory. It is too hard to look at the feeling directly; like some strong light, it burns. "This Joffrey guy--is he seriously bad news? Is he dangerous, or something?"

Dany bites her lip. "He might be. If he hurts her, I _will_ kill him."

Dany says the last words so loudly that everyone around them in the restaurant falls silent.

She doesn't look remotely embarrassed. "Margaery is a pain, but I love her," she says, simply. "This is, by the way, the most amazing pho I've ever eaten. I don't even know why, really. Maybe it's because I'm with you." She grins.

Sansa smiles; she cannot help it.

It is easier to believe in herself, when Dany is around. It is easier to feel brave.

x.  
Later that night, they kiss goodbye under a solemn October moon. The darkness gives Sansa courage; she stands on her doorstep and pulls Dany close, capturing the other girl's mouth easily. She can feel Dany smile against her lips--and then the other girl is kissing her back, the world is dissolving around them, and nothing else dares to exist.

When Sansa pulls away, she is smiling. "Thank you."

"For what?" Dany asks.

"For being the way you are, I guess."

The moment is sweet, at least until it is shattered. Because when Sansa turns to walk the other girl down the steps, she realizes they aren't alone. A slim figure stands there on the pavement, silent, something held tight in her fist.

Margaery parts her lips as if to speak, but doesn't make a sound.

 

 

 

* * *

 


	14. regret

x.  
_Oh, no,_ thinks Sansa, _This isn't how it's supposed to be._

The silence between them stretches into eternity. Margaery looks so small, standing there at the bottom of the steps, so infinitely vulnerable. It is the first time Sansa has ever seen something as shocking as sadness on the other girl's face, and the vividness of the emotion takes Sansa's breath away. Margaery is always coy and smiling and bright; so who is this stranger, and why does she look as though she's been betrayed?

The mask has slipped, but only for a moment. Because it takes just one blink of Sansa's eyes for Margaery to step forward, smiling, with her shoulders back and head held high. The sadness on the other girl's face has vanished completely. In its place there is the familiar coyness, the sureness, the strength.

 _I saw it, though,_ thinks Sansa. _I saw how she looked at me, almost like she wanted to cry._

"Ooh. Am I interrupting something?"

Dany does not let go of Sansa's hand. "Margaery, you know I never mind being interrupted by _you._ "

"I know," sighs Margaery, smiling, as she slowly walks up the steps. "Fancy seeing you here, Daenerys. Should have known you'd prey on my wolf -- she's something special, right?" She smiles at Sansa, and Sansa feels something inside of her tremble.

" _Your_ wolf?" Dany's tone is airy and teasing. "I didn't know she was yours." She pauses. "I was just going to call you tonight, you know. Tell you."

"It's not any of my business who you kiss, Dany," laughs Margaery, and Sansa feels the trembling thing within her fall completely still.

 _Did I imagine it?_ Sansa wonders. _Did I see sadness on her face because that's what I wanted to see? Did she ever have feelings for me at all?_

"Shit!" says Dany suddenly, after looking at her phone. "I have to go. Hey -- I'll see both of you soon. And -- " she reaches over, kisses Sansa full on the mouth. Sansa feels herself blush as she kisses the other girl back.

"Bye." Dany squeezes her hand one last time, and then heads down the Starks' long, winding driveway. Sansa and Margaery are both completely still as they watch her go, a little white-blonde ghost in a black shift dress. Her beauty still stuns Sansa; even now she can make out the perfect turn of her ankles, the slender calves. Her hair is like a heady white-gold fire against the blackness of the night.

Finally she is gone from sight, and Sansa senses Margaery turn to look at her.

"So, wolf girl," she says softly. "You're dating my best friend."

There are so many things that Sansa wants to say, and so many that she can't.

_It was supposed to be you. You were the one I wanted first. And I was so scared, Margaery, because I thought it was going to be just how it was before -- before, at my old school, but I trusted you, and that was the right decision. Because you're good. You're not like the girl I thought I loved in California. So what are you so scared of? Are your monsters the same as mine? But no, nothing frightens you... right? You're Margaery Tyrell._

All Sansa does is bite her lip.

"Is _this_ the reason you've been kind of avoiding me at school? Because sweetie, you didn't have to do that."

 _I avoided you at school to protect you._ But it sounds stupid to even say. _I avoided you because being around you too much makes me feel like I'm going absolutely crazy._

"I thought you felt weird... after that night in the movie theatre," says Sansa, and she can feel the heat rushing to her face. "I thought you didn't want to be around me."

"Of course I want to be around you, I miss you," says Margaery, and she steps closer. Their faces are mere inches apart now; Sansa can see the nervous break of lashes over the other girl's cheek, smell her perfume. Roses. Margaery always smells like roses, and Sansa thinks how she will never in her life be able to smell a rose without thinking of Margaery Tyrell.

Sansa wants to kiss her, but knows better. Instead, she looks down as she feels Margaery press something into her hand.

"You left this in my bed," the other girl murmurs, smiling gently. Her voice is like smoke in the air; the wind carries it away so quickly that Sansa is unsure if it was ever there at all. "I thought you might want it back."

Sansa isn't thinking when she curls her hand into Margaery's, but the other girl doesn't pull away. They stand, hands clasping the crucifix, a billion unsaid things between them.

"No," says Sansa, her heart pounding bone white against her ribcage. Nothing has changed; she still wants Margaery, wants her glittering high laugh and the way she giggles after one of Sansa's silly jokes, wants the gleam in her eyes when she talks about something she loves, wants her hot mouth and the perfect protrusion of her collarbones. _But she's not mine. She never was._ "You keep it."

Margaery's mouth forms a little 'o'.

"I'm serious," says Sansa, closing Margaery's hand back over the crucifix. "Take it."

"I'm not much for prayer or God," says Margaery, smiling.

_Then why? Why won't you just admit you like me?_

"That's okay," says Sansa, "Just take it. I... don't want it anymore. But it helped me, you know? Even if you're not religious, it might help you, too. Or..." She blushes. "Or even if it doesn't, you can still look at it and think of me."

Margaery is still smiling. "I really think about you enough as it is, Sansa Stark." But she takes the crucifix, anyway. Sansa does not want to let go of her hand, but forces herself to. _She's not yours._

"You... think about me a lot?" Sansa's voice is almost feeble with hope.

"Of course," says Margaery, but her face has a dark cast to it now. "Of course."

"Then why won't you just --"

Margaery steps even closer, takes Sansa's face in her hands, and kisses her.

 _She's never kissed me when she hasn't been drinking before. Oh, God, what is she doing?_ But it feels so lovely -- the gentle meeting of their lips, the feel of Margaery's tongue darting into her mouth. There is none of the hurried, hot rush that plagued them on the steps of the Tyrell mansion, none of the clumsy drunkenness they'd experienced in the movie theatre. Instead there is just a sweet, long, slow kiss that leaves Sansa weak in the knees. _This is our real first kiss,_ she thinks, _And it's perfect._

Margaery cradles Sansa's face in her hands the whole time, cupping her cheek, brushing away the thick auburn hair. Sansa draws back a little, and then kisses Margaery's closed eyes, her cheeks. And then she stops.

There are tears on Margaery's face, and her expression leaves Sansa cold and empty inside.

"What did I do?" Sansa asks, her heart seized up in fear. "What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing," says Margaery. She doesn't go to wipe away the tears. "You're perfect, Sansa, that's the problem. Isn't it obvious?"

"But I --"

"I seriously can't really bear the thought of saying goodbye to you," the other girl murmurs. "I know I haven't known you long, so I know that's crazy, but --"

_Saying goodbye? What is she talking about?_

"But why would you have to say goodbye?" Sansa's heart feels sore.

"You know..." Margaery ignores the question. "I really do feel as though I've met you before, Sansa, in some other life. God, it sounds so stupid. It just feels like... something in me recognized something in you."

Sansa is drowning in the other girl's words.

"I had to kiss you," Margaery murmured. "I had to see if I'd enjoy kissing you without the alcohol. And God, I do. I really, really do."

"But Dany..."

"I know." Margaery winces. "She has no idea that... that I have feelings... for you. Don't tell her. Please."

It is the first time that Margaery has admitted it to Sansa, perhaps the first time she's admitted it to even herself. Sansa wants to go and wrap her arms around the other girl, to kiss her tear-stained face. Instead she stands there, all her words lost in the sea of sadness between them.

"It's complicated," says Margaery, slowly regaining her usual poise. "It's complicated and I can't... I can't explain it right now, because it will just make me cry." She smiles.

"I'm sorry," says Sansa softly. Her mouth is dry.

"Date Dany," says Margaery, finally. "She'll take care of you. And.... she's beautiful. She's really insanely beautiful." She smiles a little, again. "I bet you're so good together."

_We are. But..._

"Good night, Sans," murmurs Margaery. "And thanks for being one of the sweetest people I've ever met."

Sansa finds that she doesn't know what to say. So instead she stands and watches Margaery walk down her long driveway, becoming smaller and smaller until at last the darkness swallows her up completely.

x.  
Sansa does as Margaery requests, and does not tell Dany about the kiss.

For the next few weeks, life goes on fairly normally. Sansa and Margaery are able to strike back up their friendship; one day Sansa skips Baelish's class again to go shopping with the older girl, and then afterwards they get sushi. Margaery, who seems terribly knowledgable about things, advises Sansa away from certain rolls and encourages her to try others. They have so much fun that Sansa doesn't even mind that she missed her second period, too. (If there is one thing Sansa is not, it's a class-skipper, but Margaery has this _pull_ on her. And Sansa doesn't resist it.)

That same night there is a school dance. Arya had already announced to Sansa that "no way in fucking hell" would she go. This secretly relieved Sansa; only Jon and Robb know that she's dating Dany, and it would be awkward if Arya started putting two and two together at the dance. She'd always been so darn _clever._

It's not that Sansa doesn't want to tell her little sister about Dany; she does.

But a part of Sansa is still scared of herself. Of who she could be, if she just let go.

x.  
Dany looks absolutely stunning when she comes to pick Sansa up.

When Sansa throws open the door to the other girl's Jeep, she sees that Dany is wearing a sheer black dress, artfully cut, and black ankle boots. _Her style is so different from Margaery's._ Everything about the other girl still impresses her; her worldliness, all of the languages she speaks, her clothes, her accent. Sansa's heart flutters a little when the other girl leans in to kiss her.

"Hey, wolf."

"Hey, Dany."

She has realized that when she's with Dany, all of her guilt is gone. It is a strange feeling, almost as though she is floating, unfettered by the weight of it. But as soon as the other girl leaves, it comes back, takes back its place just behind her rib cage. _No matter how happy she makes you, you shouldn't forget that you are the monster._

Providence's parking lot is nearly full. "School dances are _this_ big of a deal?" Asks a wide-eyed, homeschooled Dany. Sansa smiles. She's never liked school dances herself, but a part of her wants the world to see her and Dany together. Not as a couple, no. But Sansa wants to show Dany off. Sometimes she still can't believe the ethereally beautiful girl chose _her_.

They are admitted into the gym, and Sansa's eyes fly around the room. She sees her friends, boys from neighboring schools, girls from her classes, and--oh, no.

There's Margaery, dancing with her arms around Joffrey's neck.

 _Why?_ Sansa feels, oddly enough, as though someone has just punched her in the gut.

_Why him? You could've had anyone._

_You could've had me._

 

 

 

* * *

 


	15. kiss

Beside her, Dany stiffens.

"Oh, look," the English girl says, chin held regally high. "It's the scum of the earth. Joffrey Baratheon."

Sansa can't argue with that. For a few long moments they stand and watch Margaery and Joffrey dance. They are a beautiful couple, Sansa can't help but notice. _He's so tall, with that curly blonde hair and those high cheekbones..._ And Margaery, of course, is Margaery.

She's wearing a dress so short that it would have gotten Sansa into trouble--but this is Margaery, after all, and she floats above the teachers and administrators like teenage royalty. Her hair falls down her back in lazy ringlets; Sansa suddenly remembers how wondrous that hair felt against her bare skin that night in the movie theatre, and blushes. She hopes Dany doesn't notice. Margaery's face is animated, pristine, as she looks up into Joffrey's eyes. Sansa feels rather like running back to Dany's car and hiding. _What was I thinking? I'm not over her; I never was._ An acidic combination of jealousy and sadness boils in her gut.

The feeling is eased, somewhat, when Dany touches her arm.

"I guess we should say hi, shouldn't we?" The tiny blonde is fingering the dragon necklace she always wears. "I love the girl--but her taste in guys is _abysmal._ "

Sansa manages a shy smile, despite herself. "It's definitely not as good as my taste in girls." She speaks the words softly, so as to make certain no one will overhear.

Dany grins; the blonde wants to lean in and kiss her, Sansa knows, but she also knows that Dany won't do it. She is conscious of Sansa's wariness, her fear, though she does not fully understand it. _She thinks it's just because I was made fun of,_ thinks Sansa, something twisting in her stomach. _Oh, God. She doesn't know how much worse it really was. She doesn't know what they did to me, and what I did to my family._ The unpleasantness in her stomach feels almost like guilt. _I should tell her, maybe. But wouldn't she hate me? I couldn't bear for her to hate me as much as I hate myself for what I've done._

Their hands brush; Sansa itches to hold the blonde girl's hand. But she doesn't.

Margaery suddenly spots them, and her face lights up. She pulls away from Joffrey and hurries over. Her smile is like sunlight. Every time Sansa sees Margaery, the other girl is as astonishing as she was that very first day of school.

"Wolf girl--I'm _so_ glad you made it. I know you don't like these things." Margaery's voice is full of a genuine warmth that stings Sansa somewhere in her chest. "And Dany, too? My God. Sansa, do you have a pull over this girl or what? I've never been able to drag her to a dance before."

Margaery reaches in and hugs Sansa tight. Sansa is acutely aware of the way their bodies feel against each other's; she remembers, again, the night in the movie theatre. _Does Joffrey know I took his girlfriend's virginity?_ The thought just seems so crazy, so unbelievable, yet it is somehow the truth. Somehow, coy, knowledgable Margaery had been a virgin, and Sansa, well...

 _My first time didn't count; it was a mistake._ She pulls away from the other girl reluctantly. _So that night in the movie theatre... maybe that was my first time, really._

The thought soothes her, somehow. It feels right.

"She's _very_ persuasive," says Dany, a laugh in her voice as she trails her fingertips down Sansa's bare arm. Sansa does not pull away, though she senses Margaery's eyes on her.

"She definitely is," says Margaery quietly, and Sansa feels a heat creep into her face.

"So," says Dany, coolly. "How's the boy toy?"

"He's great, thanks." Margaery's voice is sweet and warm, as it almost always is, but Sansa detects a steel underneath it, along with a strange wariness. "I asked him to go hang out with his friends; I _needed_ to see you guys. Alla and Elinor didn't come; Jeyne is doing something with her boyfriend. This guy named Theon, I think, I don't know." Suddenly, her expression brightens. "Ooh. Will you girls dance with me?"

"You know I don't--"

But Margaery cuts Dany off with a gorgeous smile and a shake of her head. "But will you, for _me?_ "

Dany laughs. "You're taking advantage of my love for you, Margaery."

"Oh, whatever, Dany. You wouldn't have it any other way." Those endless brown eyes alight on Sansa. "And you, Sansa? I bet you're amazing at dancing--you're so graceful."

 _One compliment from her, and my knees go weak,_ thinks Sansa with something close to despair, stepping closer to Dany, perhaps unconsciously. _Why can't I get over her? She doesn't want to be with me, for some reason. Simple as that._

It's not, though. There are a million unsaid things in Margaery's eyes, even now.

Sansa chooses to ignore them; she has no other choice. So instead she looks straight at Margaery and smiles. "I'm not bad."

Margaery laughs her bell-like laugh. "Knew it! Come on, then, let's go--I _love_ this song."

Sansa glances over at Dany; the blonde takes her hand. Sansa doesn't pull away, but she does feel her face flush, a little. _Girls hold hands. It's nothing. No one will think anything of it._ Sansa hopes, also, that no one notices the way Dany looks at her and bites her lip, as if she's thinking something she shouldn't. _She wants to kiss me. And I want to kiss her, too._ Occasionally, Sansa has thought of doing more than kissing with Dany, but the mere idea of it turns the faint flush in her cheeks into a deepening blush. And it's almost as if Dany knows what she's thinking, because she smiles rather wickedly, strange blue eyes lit up with something wonderfully indecent.

Sansa feels a heat begin to stir in the pit of her belly, but says nothing.

x.  
They dance.

Dany, for all of her prior reluctance, proves herself to be a rather good dancer. This does not surprise Sansa in the least; the blonde girl seems good at nearly everything she tries. At first Sansa just watches her for a few moments, practically hypnotized; then Dany grabs her and pulls her close, almost too close.

For some reason, Sansa doesn't draw away.

Margaery is nearby too, though, and Sansa is powerfully aware of the Tyrell girl's presence. Margaery had told her, once, how she'd studied ballet for years and years. Sansa can believe it, when she turns her head to watch her.

The brunette draws closer to the two of them in the pulsing crowd, a little smile on her face. Joffrey is still nowhere to be seen, and Margaery doesn't seem to mind. Rather, she tugs Dany towards her and begins to dance much closer than Sansa would ever have dared to. Her slim arms slip around Dany's neck, and the blonde girl just laughs a little in that fearless way of hers, grasps Margaery's waist. They move together almost perfectly, as if they were twins, as if they were the same person. A few boys in the crowd have stopped to watch them. Sansa, for her part, feels the heat in her belly stir uncomfortably.

 _I didn't ask to feel this way,_ she thinks. _I didn't ask to like girls. It's not my fault. Jon told me--there's nothing wrong with me._

And she trusts Jon, even if she doesn't always trust herself.

Suddenly, Margaery and Dany are drawing apart, and Sansa doesn't realize why until she sees that Joffrey has come back. He looks bored, as if utterly displeased to be at a high school dance, and he pulls Margaery towards him almost carelessly. Sansa glances at Dany; the other girl is frowning, as though she is in the midst of coming to a sobering realization.

Margaery speaks to Joffrey for a few moments, and then ducks back towards Dany and Sansa.

"Okay," she says, cheeks flushed. "We're going out to get some food. You guys want to come?"

Sansa and Dany exchange a look, and the answer is written all over Dany's usually oh-so-diplomatic facial expression. Clearly, the blonde would rather walk into a burning house than go out to eat with Joffrey. _She hates him,_ Sansa thinks, and a slight trail of worry begins to creep up her spine. _Does she know something about him that she hasn't told me?_

"We'll stay for a while," Sansa says, reaching out to give Margaery's hand a squeeze. "Have fun, okay? I'll call you when we get out--maybe we can meet up then?"

Margaery flashes a smile that is both soft and brilliant. "Perfect. Maybe in an hour or so? Meet up at my place, maybe?"

"Sounds good to me," Dany says, swooping in to give her a quick hug. She wants to say more, Sansa knows, but wisely chooses against it.

Margaery turns towards Sansa, then, and Sansa thinks she sees a spasm of regret cross the other girl's face--but it is for a moment only. _She's like a politician, almost. You only see what she wants you to see._

The other girl leans forward and for one mad moment Sansa thinks that Margaery is about to kiss her on the mouth.

Of course, she doesn't. Rather, her lips brush Sansa's cheek softly. "See you soon, wolf girl," she breathes into Sansa's ear, and Sansa nearly shivers. But then Margaery is drawing away again, all perfect smile and flawless tumble of long brown hair, her pale skin flushed in the heat of the gym. _She's not yours._

Joffrey glances over at Sansa and Dany, eyes them for a moment, and says nothing. Then he grabs Margaery's hand and leads her wordlessly through the crowd. Sansa watches them go, queerly sad, until at last she feels a hand on her arm. Dany.

"We're still here," the English girl tells her kindly, as if sensing her worry. "So we may as well dance, right?"

Sansa suddenly realizes that she would like that; she'd like that very much.

No, she's never particularly enjoyed dances, but there's something about Dany... Sansa giggles nervously as the blonde girl pulls her close again, and, like the first time, does not draw away. _Girls always dance together, anyway. There's nothing weird about it._ No one else has to know how they'd sat in Dany's car last night and kissed for hours; how hot the other girl's eyes feel right now on Sansa's skin. No one else has to know the things that begin to run through her mind when Dany's body suddenly swallows up the space between them, and she feels Dany's chest brush against her own.

 _She's so daring,_ thinks Sansa, and blushes for what feels like the hundredth time that evening. _She doesn't care what they think at all._

Sansa has always been rather polite and contained for all her natural friendliness. Dany, then, is a whole different world--the girl is regal, yes, and has immaculate manners when she so chooses, but she's also so _bold._ She's so free.

_I wonder if anything scares her._

The rest of the room begins to fade; really, there is just Dany, and her oddly sinuous movements, almost like a snake's. Sansa finds herself nearly mesmerized. It is easy enough to keep up with the other girl; Sansa is not a bad dancer herself, and has a good sense of rhythm. But she finds that she's terribly distracted, anyway, distracted by the shape of Dany's full mouth, and the fall of her white-gold hair, and the knowing, ever-present gleam in her eyes. Dany is only seventeen, but sometimes she seems so much older.

_The last time you felt like this, it was with Margaery. And the time before that, it was with..._

All of a sudden Dany's breath is hot in her ear. "You know what would be amazing, Sansa?"

Sansa shakes her head, feels the smoothness of Dany's skin against hers as she does so.

"If you showed me around your school. I've been friends with Margaery forever, but I've never been in here before."

Sansa giggles a little, nervously. "Is that a good idea?"

She feels Dany squeeze her hand.

"It's a _great_ idea. Trust me. I just know."

Sansa squeezes Dany's hand in return, feels the wings of a dozen birds fluttering inside of her. "Okay. Let's do it."

x.  
The halls of Providence echo with a solemn emptiness as Sansa and Dany walk through them. The two girls stay very close to one another, giggling and speaking in low voices, their footsteps perfectly silent on the stone floor. Sansa feels strangely aware, alive.

"I don't know if we're allowed to wander around at night," admits Sansa in a whisper as they turn a corner. "We might get in trouble. Or I will, at least."

Dany glances over. "I'll go back if you want to." Her fingertips touch the other girl's wrist, briefly. "Really, it's okay. I don't care about getting in trouble, but I don't want _you_ to." Then she reaches up and brushes hair out of Sansa's eyes, gently, almost like a mother would.

Dany has been touching her a lot tonight, and Sansa is thrilled by it, despite her fear. Unlike Margaery, the blonde girl seems utterly content with herself, and also seems remarkably fearless. That fearlessness may very well be a flaw, but Sansa has a hard time thinking of it as one. Margaery is brave, too, but it's a well-contained, quiet sort of bravery, not this raw, surprising boldness. Sansa wonders if her own courage can match Dany's. Her father has always called her brave, but of course that doesn't count.

 _But I'm a Stark,_ Sansa thinks suddenly, and the faces of her mother, of Arya, of Robb, all flit through her mind in quick succession. _I can be brave._

And she slips her hand into Dany's.

She hears the smile in the other girl' voice when the blonde speaks. "I'm much too fond of you, Sansa Stark."

"I like you a lot, too," admits Sansa, glowing with pleasure. She pauses, and then adds, "I remember when I first saw you.... at Margaery's party. I was so surprised. I mean, shocked. At how gorgeous you looked."

"Right before spin the bottle," says Dany with a little laugh. "What a stupid game, honestly. I remember seeing you, too. You were wearing this black outfit--it made your hair look so red, for some reason. Want to know a secret?"

Sansa nods.

"I was hoping for the bottle to land on you when I spun it."

"No way. Really, Dany?"  
"Of course," says Dany. "You were the prettiest girl in the room."

Sansa feels a wave of pleasure wash over her, and then, emboldened by Dany's words, blurts out: "You didn't want it to--you know--land on a guy?"

She's been intensely curious about this, ever since Dany had slipped Sansa her number the morning after the party.

"You're asking me if I'm gay?"

"Yes," says Sansa, feeling absurdly shy.

"No, I'm not," says the blonde. "I'm not gay. I don't really label myself; I don't want to. I've liked guys and I've liked girls. But you _were_ the prettiest girl in the room, you know, and for whatever reason--you were who I wanted to kiss." She shrugs her slim shoulders as they turn another corner. "What about you?" She gives Sansa's hand a slight squeeze.

"I..." Sansa finds that she doesn't know what to say, and her voice is incredibly small as she continues. "I mean... I've had.... crushes on guys, I guess. Definitely. Little innocent ones. But I've never wanted to..."

"You've never wanted to have sex with one," says Dany, bluntly. Her accent, still lovely to Sansa's ears, softens the harshness of the words.

Sansa feels herself flush anyway. "I--I mean, yes. I've never wanted to have sex with a guy." It is odd to admit it out loud, into the open air.

"That's okay," says Dany. "Oh, Sansa. It really is okay, you know."

"I know," says Sansa, slowly. "I'm not... confused about it. It's not what I would have thought... I don't know. I'm still getting used to the idea of it, I guess."

They walk in silence for a few moments, hand-in-hand. Providence is perfectly serene and dark, as if it is hung in a perfect sphere of quiet.

"You should show me a classroom," suggests Dany suddenly, stopping in her tracks.

Sansa giggles. "Why?"

"Because," says Dany, almost idly, turning to look Sansa in the eye. "I want to teach you something."

Sansa feels the heat inside of her flare. "Oh. But... what do you want to teach me?"

"Something very important," says Dany, the shadow of a laugh in her voice. "And Margaery's always going on about what a great student you are--"

"I am a good student," Sansa says, automatically. It's true, after all.

"Oh, good," whispers Dany, stepping closer. "Because I'm not very patient." She is clasping both of Sansa's hands, now, running her fingers over the other girl's palms. "Sansa?"

"Yes?"

"You're the only person I want to date, you know."

"Really?"

"Didn't I tell you? I always know what I want."

"You said that you always _go after_ what you want."

"That's also true." Their faces are very close now; Sansa can see the delicate fan of Dany's eyelashes against her white cheeks when she blinks, and her own heart is beating incredibly fast. Sansa feels a sweet, urgent ache inside of her, threading her veins with heat. She is almost frightened by how badly she wants to kiss the other girl. She'd been drunk in the movie theatre with Margaery, and drunk when she'd kissed her on the steps of the Tyrell mansion. Now she has no such excuse, yet she can't stop staring at Dany's mouth.

Sansa pulls a hand away from Dany, reaches for the crucifix that's always around her neck. It's not there, of course. She gave it to Margaery.

Sansa bites her lip, and then wordlessly tugs Dany into a familiar classroom across the hall.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	16. fear

x.  
The classroom is completely dark, and both girls know better than to turn on the light.

"Oh--" Sansa frowns a little as she knocks her leg into a desk. "Ouch! Geeze, Dany, I can't see a thing."

"That's okay," says Dany, and her voice is rather wicked, even as she laughs. "I can teach you this in the dark."

They brush up against the teacher's desk, and Dany at last pauses. For a few moments the only thing Sansa hears is the other girl's breathing, and the only thing she feels is the rapid beating of her own heart. _I haven't been thinking of the past all night. When I'm with her, it leaves me alone._ It's wonderful, to not be plagued with memories. _But with Margaery... it's almost the same, isn't it? Margaery makes me so happy, too, but she doesn't want to be with me, she doesn't want--_

"Sansa," murmurs Dany, interrupting her thoughts. "Are you ready?"

Sansa swallows. The room feels incredibly hot. "For what?"

"You know," says the blonde girl, stepping closer. "Do you remember when we went to the bookstore and you were asking me about the languages I speak? And you said you wanted to learn them all." She's running her fingers over Sansa's palms again; her hands are incredibly soft.

"You said you'd teach me," whispers Sansa.

"And I will," says Dany. "But I can teach you a few other things, too, you know."

"You can?" Sansa feels as though Dany is trying to drive her mad, and it may be working. She is also powerfully aware of how she should _absolutely_ not be in a darkened classroom with Dany after school hours, alone, and maybe it's true, that the old Sansa never would have done such a thing. The old Sansa always followed the rules. But the old Sansa hadn't fallen in love with a girl who wanted to destroy her. The old Sansa hadn't nearly, in turn, destroyed her own family. Something is driving her to recklessness, and she knows exactly what it is--this strange newfound courage, the bizarre sense of comfort she is beginning to feel in her own skin.

 _I might be a monster,_ she thinks, _But I do want her, and that's not monstrous._

_Jon and Robb and Dany--I think they were right after all._

Sansa lets out a little shuddery breath. The blonde girl takes a step closer, presses up against her. Margaery always smells like roses; Dany smells like some exotic spice. It is heady and alluring, like she is.

"I don't want to get you in trouble," whispers Dany, and she is so close that her lips brush Sansa's. But she doesn't kiss her. "So we have to be quiet. Can you be quiet?"

"Yes," whispers Sansa back. She's never done anything like this in her life; she knows that what they're about to do will be very much against school rules. She also knows she will risk a serious punishment if they're caught. And of course, the old Sansa never would have done it; the old Sansa was such a good girl, who rarely stepped out of line. But the old Sansa didn't know Dany. Dany, who is so bold and sure and daring, who floats through life seemingly effortlessly, who is so undeniably _cool._ Who Sansa is practically dying to kiss.

"Okay," murmurs Dany. "As long as you're okay with it." Sansa can sense her smile in the dark. "I've been wanting to do this all night; you have no idea. But first... I have a question."

"What is it?" Sansa is tentatively running her hand up and down the curve of Dany's waist, barely touching, just skimming the fabric of the other girl's dress. It feels safe to do, in the darkness.

"Do you want to... date exclusively?" Dany sounds almost shy, now, and it is so endearing that it is all Sansa can do not to lean in slightly and kiss the other girl hard on the mouth. "It's just--like I said, I don't want anyone else, I just want you, Sansa." She pauses for a moment, and the old sureness comes back into her voice. "I do really always know what I want."

Sansa feels a hot thrill course through her, along with a sharp stab of pain.

_Margaery isn't yours... You need to move on. You need to. It's unhealthy not to, and Dany..._

She can't lie to herself and pretend that she doesn't still want Margaery, can't deceive herself into thinking that her feelings for the Tyrell girl are not powerful, consuming. But Sansa also can't ignore the trembling happiness inside of her right now.

_Be brave. Just be brave._

"Yeah," whispers Sansa, grinning widely--she can't help it. "I do. Dany, I really do. I want you, too." She tries, rather desperately, not to think of Margaery. She is almost successful.

Her eyes have adjusted, a little; now she can see a lovely smile on the other girl's near-perfect features. Dany is silent for a moment, and then says, "Oh, good. Good. I was so hoping you'd say that. I can't believe how nervous I just got. You make me so nervous sometimes, for some reason. I never get nervous. And..." She pauses. "Okay. Now I'm ready."

"For what?" They are so close, again, that their lips brush as Sansa speaks the words.

"You're still kind of new at... certain things, aren't you?"

Sansa just nods, knowing instinctively to what Dany refers. She knows that she is only a week away from her seventeenth birthday, and is probably more experienced than a lot of girls her age, yet she feels, strangely, as if she knows absolutely nothing. Her first time... she'd been tricked into it, and the second time, she'd been drunk. _Margaery._ She recalls the feeling of Margaery's mouth on her and is suddenly very thankful that Dany can't tell what she's thinking.

"I thought so." There is no judgment in Dany's voice, and she reaches up to trace the line of Sansa's jaw with her finger. "I'm more experienced than you are, I think. So I'll teach you."

"Teach me what?"

"This." And finally, at last, Dany is pressing her mouth to Sansa's, the small space between them has vanished completely, and Sansa is already parting her lips for the other girl's tongue. She feels Dany smile a little at her eagerness.

The darkness shrouds them in heat, and Sansa finds herself feeling oddly alive again. _I never do things like this. I skipped class with Margaery, but I never do things like... this. She's just so--_

Sansa gives a tiny exhalation of breath as Dany's hand slips up her shirt and cups one of her breasts. The other girl's thumb runs over a nipple as she bites Sansa's lower lip, gently. Sansa is nearly dizzy, now; Dany has drawn this out for so long that now she barely knows what to do now that it's finally begun. She does know, though, that she wants Dany almost as badly as she's ever wanted anything in her life, and that the feeling of Dany's hand on her breast is almost unbearable. She presses herself into the other girl, shyness forgotten, inhibitions cast away.

But Dany goes slowly. She kisses Sansa carefully, guiding her, teasing Sansa with the clever movements of her tongue. They find a rhythm and Sansa succumbs to it, following the older girl's lead, sighing as Dany presses her hips firmly into Sansa's--but does nothing more.

"You're so good at kissing," whispers Dany when they come up for air. Her hand slips out from underneath Sansa's shirt; Sansa feels acutely disappointed, and is immediately embarrassed by that disappointment. "I never told you that before."

"So are you," murmurs Sansa back. In the month that they've dated, they've done no more than kiss, slip a hand up the other's shirt, cautiously explore. Sansa has been perfectly content with that, relieved for the slow pace after her abrupt affair with Margaery, but now she finds that she desperately wants to go a little further. She's not ready to have sex with someone else--the thought, indeed, makes her feel slightly ill--but she wants badly to try something, anything. _All that time that I dated Will, I never wanted to do more than kiss. And now..._

But she also knows that they can't possibly do anything more out in the open of the classroom. Dany may embolden her, but Sansa hasn't forgotten herself.

The other girl seems to sense Sansa's hesitation, and squints over her shoulder in the darkness. "Is that... a closet?" Her voice is coy, almost like Margaery's.

"Dany! We can't--"

"We can do whatever we want," declares Dany firmly, and leans forward to kiss Sansa, hard. Then they are both hurrying towards the closet, halfway laughing, pulling the door open before plunging themselves back into darkness.

The closet is enormous, but Dany pins the other girl expertly into a corner. The wall is hard against Sansa's back and she finds she doesn't mind at all. She is consumed, instead, by the feeling of Dany; the firmness of her breasts, the sharpness of her hip bones, the way she coaxes little noises from Sansa's mouth, noises that Sansa wasn't even aware that she could make. She kisses Sansa surely and confidently, as she always does, yet this time Sansa knows she is holding something back.

"Please," whispers Sansa finally, nearly breathless, against the blonde girl's mouth; she feels a very specific ache threading through her body, a sort of fire, that leaves her completely inflamed. Almost helpless.

"Please, what?" Dany's mouth drops to her neck, leaves a trail of hot, tiny kisses there. Her hands are exploring Sansa's body, but over her clothes.

"Touch me," whispers Sansa, blushing fiercely even as she says it. She wants to pull up Dany's dress, feel the other girl's skin against hers, get _closer._ But there is no alcohol to make her bold, drive her onwards. Instead she's caught between this incredible heat and the knowledge that the old Sansa would never do this, would never hide away in her school's dark closet while kissing another girl. The old Sansa, just a year ago, would be appalled at the idea of kissing a girl at all, much less thinking of doing the things that she is now imagining. _I lied to myself for so long._

Dany is smiling again. "Where?"

Sansa pauses. "Everywhere?" It comes out as a question, not a demand.

"Everywhere?" Dany's hands go to Sansa's shirt, begin to ease it over her head. The air is cold on Sansa's bare skin.

"Yes," says Sansa, perhaps more firmly than she initially meant to, as she tugs the shirt over her head and drops it self-consciously to the floor. She isn't wearing a bra; Dany just looks at her for a moment, perfectly quiet, as if thinking.

"Sansa..." Dany pauses. "Obviously we're not going to... you know." She suddenly seems slightly shy, too. "Not here."

Sansa feels a distinct rush of relief, but all she does is nod. "Obviously," she replies. "Not in a school closet."

"Just making sure that you realized," says Dany, laughing a little and stepping closer. She trails a fingertip slowly down Sansa's jaw, and then her neck, eliciting a shiver from the other girl when she brings her touch even lower, between Sansa's breasts. At last she leans in and kisses Sansa full on the mouth.

And then Dany's body is pressed up against Sansa's, and she is gently pulling her downwards. Sansa follows the older girl's lead, yet again, until they are kneeling on the carpeted floor, hands running over one another as if they might suddenly run out of time at any moment. Dany's fingers are dexterous, and she seems to know exactly where to touch; Sansa thinks that the other girl may very well be driving her absolutely mad, yet she finds that she doesn't mind nearly as much as she should.

At last Sansa can take it no longer, and her fingers creep hesitantly beneath the hem of Dany's shift dress, her fingertips drifting hummingbird-light over the other girl's thighs. She strokes the soft skin there, hands creeping higher and higher, until Dany sighs a little into her mouth. The sound makes the heat flaring inside of Sansa twinge, almost painfully.

"Yes," the older girl whispers, "Yes." They both reach at the same moment for Dany's dress, and within seconds it is discarded alongside Sansa's shirt. The blonde girl is not wearing a bra, either, and Sansa can make out the lovely curve of her waist, her slim shape. She wants to tell Dany how beautiful she is, kneeling there, but the other girl is already leaning into her again, and the feeling of Dany's bare skin against hers renders Sansa temporarily speechless.

Dany gently guides Sansa downwards, so that her back is pressed against the carpet. "Okay," Dany whispers, rather wickedly, as her fingertip traces a circle around Sansa's nipple. " _Please_ don't make too much noise--"

But Sansa surprises them both and pulls Dany towards her without another word, and the blonde girl gives a little laugh of delight. And then her mouth is--everywhere--on Sansa's face, her neck, her collarbones, her breasts... And all Sansa can think is how she cannot believe this is happening, that she doesn't _do_ things like this, that she follows the rules--but Dany's mouth feels so perfect, and her _tongue..._

 _She does know what she's doing,_ thinks Sansa faintly, as she winds her hands in Dany's hair, arches her back hard. Because all the girl is doing is _kissing_ her, stroking her skin, yet Sansa can barely stand it. She can't even stop the little sighs and moans from leaving her lips, either--and the sounds themselves seem to shudder, linger uneasily in the air. The tiny noises just seem to drive Dany onward; her touch becomes firmer, the pressure of her tongue more precise. Sansa shudders a little as the other girl's mouth finds her left breast. Her entire body is strung tight, aching, and she makes a sound halfway between frustration and pleasure, closes her eyes.

When Sansa opens them again, she sees the classroom light flicker on.

"No," she whispers in alarm, and at once she is yanking herself off of the ground, pulling Dany up with her. "No, no, no--" What was perfect moments ago has become profoundly wrong.

They both scramble for their clothes wordlessly in the dark. Dany finds her dress first, pulls it over her head and straightens it the best she can. But it takes longer for Sansa to find her shirt, and she hasn't even finished struggling into it when the door opens.

"Sansa Stark? You are perhaps the very last student I'd expect to find inside this closet." Petyr Baelish's voice is catlike, and, contrary to his words, lacks the faintest hint of surprise.

Sansa wonders for an absurd moment if she's slipped into a nightmare.

She cannot meet his eyes; instead, she looks towards Dany, hoping against hope that the other girl has one of her usual tricks up her sleeve, a way to get them out of this painlessly. But as soon as Sansa sees Dany standing there bathed in the light from the classroom, Sansa knows that it's no good. Dany's hair is tangled, a mess, and her face is flushed. She's breathing more heavily than normal, too, though Sansa can sense that she is trying to hide it. No, Sansa realizes with an abject sense of horror, they look exactly as guilty as they are.

_You should have known better--you should have known._

For a few moments, the only noise to be heard is that of Sansa and Dany's uneven breathing. Sansa gazes at the floor, smoothing down her hair, and says nothing. She suddenly remembers that awful day in California with a horrible clarity; the video tape, her old school's cafeteria, the way her knife had slipped from her fingers as the television came to life. The shocked silence of everyone around her, heavy, complete, broken only by one girl's disbelieving laughter. _But I hadn't done anything wrong, then,_ thinks Sansa, her heart twisting in her chest. _This was my fault--we shouldn't have come in here, and we knew it._

_I knew it, at least._

Shame swamps her in a humiliation so complete that Sansa finds it suddenly difficult to stand. Her mouth is dry.

"I don't recognize your friend," Baelish says into the silence, and then addresses Dany. "Do you attend school here?"

"No," says Dany, shaking her head. She even smiles at him, a little, and Sansa marvels at her composure. "I'm homeschooled."

Sansa's English teacher sighs a weary sigh. "Students aren't allowed in the classrooms after the school has been locked up--not alone, anyway. Sansa knows that, I'm sure. And they're certainly not allowed to use the classrooms to, ah..." He pauses. "How do I state this delicately?"

Sansa thinks she'll drown in her own embarrassment, but almost instantaneously, horror comes to take its place. _He'll tell. He has to. He'll tell, and it will get out somehow. And my parents will absolutely kill me._

"Mr. Baelish," she says, "Please--"

"It was my fault, sir," says Dany, interrupting, her voice cool and level. "I convinced Sansa to explore the school with me. I've always wanted to see it. She didn't even really want to. But--"

"--But you somehow ended up in a closet, anyway," says Baelish softly. "I'm sure it's a very interesting story. But you aren't my student. I think it would be best if you waited outside for a few minutes."

Dany lifts her chin, almost defiant, and doesn't move.

"Dany," says Sansa, slowly, to the other girl. "He's right. I'll be out in a second."

Dany says nothing, just heads towards the door. As she passes Sansa her hand twitches, briefly, as though tempted to reach out and touch her--but wisely thinks better of it. Sansa watches the other girl go, and her heart pounds so loudly in her chest that she is certain Baelish must be able to hear it. She feels profoundly ill. _It's almost like California. It's different, but in some ways, it's exactly the same._ Her head seems strangely light. _I was right--it's happening again. Maybe it's never going to end._ She thinks of Bran and Rickon, holds their faces close in her memory, as if that will bring them back.

Finally, when the silence becomes too much, she looks towards her English teacher again. Sansa finds that she has difficulty reading the expression on his face. She had hoped there would be disappointment there, because disappointment is simple, easy, understandable. Disappointment is something she can deal with. Instead Baelish looks almost amused, and oddly satisfied.

"You're a star pupil, Miss Stark, yet you're undeniably difficult," he says. "And you've just created a rather complicated situation for yourself."

Sansa tugs at her shirt, and says nothing. She knows that her faultless manners won't save her here.

"You know what this looks like." Baelish pauses. "And you know that this is a religious school. I don't think I need to fill in the blanks, do I?"

"But they _can't_ \--I mean, we weren't--"

"You're right," says Baelish, arms crossed against his chest. "You're right that they can't penalize you because your friend is female. But I have a sinking suspicion that you'd have an easier time of it if she were a boy."

Sansa's world is spinning in memory and heat, and the light of the classroom is terribly severe, revealing. _This is how life is._ She'd been so graceful, once, floating through her existence almost like Dany seems to--but that feels like a very long time ago. Sansa can barely remember it, now.

"Please," she says, because she doesn't know what else to do. "Please don't tell anyone--I _can't_ get in trouble for this. I can't."

The look in his eyes is rather cunning. "You didn't murder anyone, Sansa. You're not going to jail."

"But you said--"

"It is complicated. But there's nothing we can do about that now."

"I don't think you understand," Sansa says softly, desperate. She is at the edge of tears, but doesn't let them fall. "Everyone finds out everything at this school. And no one can know."

"What can't they know?"

Sansa cringes a little, and heat floods her face again. "You know, Mr. Baelish. You know." She pauses. "But how did you..."

"I'd forgotten something in the classroom that I needed," he says. "And then... I heard you."

There is nothing Sansa wants more in that moment than to disappear completely.

"Please," she tries, again. "Please don't tell anyone--punish me, but don't tell the school, don't let this get out. I'll do _anything_." She doesn't know what else to say.

"You'll do anything?" There's that amusement in his voice again now, along with something else, something that makes a little shiver run down her spine. Sansa ignores it.

"Yes," she says, desperate, the memory of what happened in California running through her mind like a movie reel. "I'll do anything. Really."

Baelish sighs. "I won't tell the administration, Sansa. It goes against my better judgment, you know." His eyes flit over her wrinkled shirt, her flushed cheeks. "You should probably go home."

Gratitude floods her, and the memory of his hand on her knee, slipping up her thigh, vanishes from Sansa's mind. _Maybe he isn't so bad after all. Maybe I was wrong._

"Thank you," she says, almost breathless. "Thank you. I promise it won't--happen again."

Baelish simply smiles. "No, I'm sure it won't." He dismisses her with his eyes, and Sansa wastes no time in fleeing the room.

x.  
Dany is waiting outside, lovely face tight with worry.

"Oh my _God,_ " she says when Sansa comes out into the hall. "Jesus, Sansa, I'm so sorry. I don't think things through sometimes--I just act. How much trouble are you in?"

The concern on Dany's face makes something sweet bloom in Sansa's chest, despite herself. "It's okay," she says, reaching for the other girl's hand. "I'm not in trouble."

Concern is replaced by puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"He's not going to tell the administration," says Sansa.

"Wait--really? Why not?"

Sansa shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe he feels bad for me. I don't know. But he's not going to tell, and that's all that matters, right?" She tugs at Dany's hand, and they start off down the hall.

She has never been so desperate to leave Providence behind.

x.  
Sansa is settling into the passenger seat of Dany's Jeep when her phone rings.

Margaery.

"Hey, girl." The other girl's voice is almost like a purr. "You guys done with the dance yet?"

"Um--yeah. Yeah, we just got out." Sansa tries to imagine Margaery's reaction to finding out what happened in the classroom; she finds she can't. "Where are you guys?"

"Joff's house, actually. Not mine. You want to come over?"

Sansa wants to see Margaery badly. _That's the problem. I always want to be around her. Always. I don't know how to let go._ She doesn't, however, particularly want to see Joffrey and his friends.

The desire to see Margaery wins out, as it always does. Not even the sick sense of jealousy that threads through her at the sight of Margaery and Joffrey together is enough to deter her. _I don't understand why I can't get her out of my heart. I'm trying so hard. So hard._

"Yeah," she says into the phone. "Yeah, we'll be there. Where does he live?"

Dany turns her head and gives Sansa a rather fierce look. Sansa pretends to not see it.

When she ends the call, Dany sighs. "Tell me that we're not going to Joffrey's house, please. Tell me that I completely misinterpreted that."

"I need to find out more about this guy," says Sansa, honestly, as they drive down the darkened streets. "You said he's bad news. Why is he bad news?"

Dany says nothing for a little while. And then;

"I didn't... I didn't tell you the whole truth, before. I know this guy, Sansa. I lied to you before. Shit, I lied to Margaery; I've been lying this whole time. I _know_ this guy." She swerves the Jeep, pulls into an almost-empty parking lot, parks the Jeep crookedly. "He scares me, Sansa."

Sansa stares at her wide-eyed in the darkness. She can't imagine Dany being afraid of anything.

"If he scares you... why didn't you tell Margaery?"

"Because," says Dany, staring ahead into the darkness, expressionless. "I didn't tell her the truth _because_ he scares me. I've been trying to get them to break up ever since they started dating, you know. But I'm going to have to tell her the truth."

"You and him... You pretend like you don't know each other."

"He probably wishes he never met me," says Dany, and there is a cold anger in her voice now. "I know I certainly wish that I never met him."

She turns towards Sansa, and for a moment Sansa thinks there are tears in Dany's eyes. But no, she's wrong, because the glitter in Dany's eyes is gone almost as fast as it came.

"I've been an awful friend, not telling her what I know," says Dany, and her voice nearly trembles. She looks almost vulnerable, and Sansa can't ever remember Dany appearing vulnerable before. "But honestly, Sansa. He might be one of the only people who really frightens me."

Dany pauses. "Have you ever been immobilized by fear?"

Sansa's heart aches, and for once she doesn't know what to say. So she just says the truth. "Yes. Yes, I have been."

"Everyone thinks I'm so amazingly brave," says Dany, softly. "And maybe I am. But I'm not fearless. There are a few things that do scare me."

"And he's one of them."

"Yeah," says Dany. "He's one of them." She pauses. "You think he's just some teenage jerk, at first. But he's not. And he has a very powerful family. I don't. I have almost no one."

"You have me," says Sansa, and she means it.

Dany's almost-violet eyes flit to hers in the darkness, unwavering, lovely even in the gloom. That one look says more than all of the words in the world. They sit there in silence for a while. Sansa is remembering all of the things in her past she wishes so badly she could change.

She knows Dany is doing the same.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	17. golden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that I've switched up a family tree here, a little-- Robert is now Renly's cousin, rather than his brother. It made the story less complicated this way. Anyway, onward.  
> 

x.  
Sansa and Dany sit in darkness inside of the Jeep, and for long moments there is only the sound of their breathing to be heard. The outer world feels far away, as if they are inside a cocoon, slumbering, peaceful.

But the look on Dany's proud face is anything but content.

"His last name is Baratheon, but he's a Lannister through and through," says Dany. At Sansa's confused expression, she pauses. "You've never heard of the Lannisters?"

Sansa shakes her head, feeling rather ignorant. But Dany just nods and continues, gazing out the window as if it would hurt her to look directly at the other girl. "They're like royalty around here. You know how Margaery's family is extremely well known?"

Sansa hadn't, not at first. She had no idea that the Tyrells were so prestigious, not when she'd first moved to Connecticut. She hadn't realized that they were a powerful political family, because Margaery had never spoke of it. Sansa realizes, suddenly, how strange that was of her to do.

"Yeah," says Sansa, watching Dany's expression carefully. "They're politicians. Are the Lannisters politicians, too?"

Dany smiles a pantomime of a smile. "In a way, I guess they are." She pauses. "Some of their money comes from gold mines, you know. They're the richest people I've ever met, richer than the Tyrells. They're also high-flying business execs, and they're pretty much American royalty. Not to mention--they're _descended_ from actual Norwegian royalty." Dany shakes her head a little. "You don't mess with people like that."

"Not even you?"

"I tried, once," the blonde girl says slowly. "It was a mistake. And like I said—I don't have anyone, only the couple who adopted me, and then my brother. And he's absolutely crazy." She turns towards Sansa again, and Sansa sees that her eyes have gone cold, stormlike. "I hate feeling powerless."

"But the cops," Sansa says, "Couldn't they—"

"Oh, Sansa," says Dany, smiling a little at her naivety. "It's not that simple.”

Sansa lapses into silence for a little while.

"You kind of get it, don't you? I mean, your dad owns a business, right? I'm pretty sure I heard the name _Stark_ before I ever met you."

"We're not famous," says Sansa, a little embarrassed.

"No," says Dany, settling back against her seat. "But your family is wealthy. That gives you some benefits, you know? Joffrey can do whatever he wants--he's not just rich. He's a _Lannister._ "

"Dany," Sansa says slowly. "What did he do to you?"

But the blonde's face looks hard and settled in the dim light. She slips the key back into the ignition and the Jeep rumbles to steady life. But she doesn't speak.

"Dany?" Sansa's voice is very small.

"Look," says the other girl, "I don't want to go to his house." She lifts her chin resolutely. "I'll drop you off. I know you want to see Margaery."

"I could just stay with you," Sansa offers. "Really, I could."

"No, Sansa. It's okay, really." Dany's expression softens. "I should go see my brother, anyway. He's been texting me all night."

"Is he upset?"

Dany shrugs. "Probably. But it's okay. I can handle him."

 _She's suffered so much,_ thinks Sansa. _But somehow, she doesn't seem like it._ She looks at the blonde girl, small-boned, delicate. Fragile. Sansa remembers the first time she saw her—at Margaery's party—and recalls how the light had seemed to fall on the two of them only, the laughing brunette and the regal, impossible girl with silver-gold hair. _I didn't think that this was how things would end up, though. I never could have guessed._

_Things never turn out the way you'd think. That's the only truth I know._

x.  
The Baratheon residence is less of a house and more of a castle.

 _You've got to be kidding me,_ thinks Sansa as she walks up to the massive black gate surrounding the estate. _How much money do these people have?_

Sansa is no stranger to wealth, but her parents live absolutely frugally in comparison to the splendor of the home that awaits her when the guard unlocks the gate. Slowly she walks up the driveway, running all the things that Dany told her on the way over through her anxious mind.

 _Joffrey is the product of two wealthy families: the Baratheons and the Lannisters. His mother, Cersei, is a high ranking executive in a company owned by her father. Joffrey's father, Robert, comes from a manufacturing empire, and he's a horrible drunk. Robert is Renly's cousin._ Sansa pauses on the long, cobbled driveway. _And Margaery. Margaery, what are you doing with Joffrey? What are you thinking?_

But that's the problem, of course; Sansa never knows what the other girl is thinking. Beneath those laughing eyes, beneath the flushed warm skin, the perfectly-fitting skirts, the intimate smiles—what is there? Margaery doesn't let the world in; she knows better. She is sweet and kind and good, funny and bold and strong. But these attributes don't make up a whole person. There is more to her, and even now, Sansa yearns to know these other parts, to touch them. She has always seen within Margaery a fragile wariness that is just out of her reach; it is evident, sometimes, when the other girl goes cold, closes herself off from the world.

_What are you hiding from, Margaery? What scares you?_

Sansa walks up the immense grey steps and stands before the door. She takes a breath, smoothes down her hair. And then she rings the doorbell.

The doorbell is louder than she'd expected; Sansa takes a step back despite herself, suddenly a little scared for no reason at all. _No reason, except that I'm walking into a lion's den._

Presently, the grand doors open, beckoning her in. There is what Sansa guesses to be a servant standing there, carefully-dressed, stern. Sansa feels very small.

"Hello," she says, "I'm Sansa Stark. Joffrey's... friend." The word falls lifelessly from her mouth.

"Oh," the woman says, "Of course. They're in the... I'll take you to them."

The wealth here is beyond anything Sansa has ever seen; these Baratheons, these Lannisters, seem to inhabit an entirely different world. Sansa follows the servant through the manor as if in a dream; she takes in the high ceilings, the giant rooms, the astounding works of art. Even Margaery's home, so breathtaking in its scope, so fantastic in its beauty, cannot compare to this. She wonders despite herself if the Baratheons and Lannisters are wealthier than the Tyrells, or simply more showy.

As they round a dimly-lit corner, Sansa hears a familiar laugh.

 _Margaery._ Something in her chest tightens— that _laugh;_ Sansa will never forget it, she is absolutely sure. Before she ever even saw Margaery, that first day of school, she heard her laughter: bell-like, sweet, high. It seems to her like the most distinctive laugh in the world. She can't imagine Margaery without it.

They turn the corner and Sansa spots a group of teenagers gathered in a large sitting room. Here the colors are red and gold, so different from the dark tones that Sansa has seen throughout the house. It is a beautiful room; Sansa is almost too afraid to step into it. The servant had already walked away, and Sansa is standing hesitantly in the shadows, when Margaery notices her. The other girl's face lights up; she nearly leaps off of the elegant red couch she's sitting on, and hurries towards Sansa.

"Hey! You made it after all." Margaery's smile doesn't falter until she realizes that Dany is not there.

"Dany couldn't come." Sansa peers around Margaery's shoulder and sees that there is a woman in the room that she hadn't noticed before; tall, elegant, slim. With flowing blonde curls. She is so astonishing that Sansa abandons her manners entirely; she can't help but stare.

"Sansa!" Margaery waves a hand in front of her face. "You there? Why didn't Dany come?"

Sansa blinks, draws her gaze away from the beautiful blonde woman. "She... had to go see her brother."

"Oh, that's too bad." Margaery's brow furrows a little, as if she is trying to work something out in her head, but says nothing of it. "Oh, well. Come in, okay? I'm so excited that _you_ could come, at least."

They step into the warm light of the sitting room. The blonde woman has turned from Jofffey now and is gazing at them with an expression Sansa cannot read. This must be Joffrey's mother, of course; they share the same eerie beauty—almost cruel, in a way—and their hair is the same lustrous gold.

Suddenly, the woman smiles. "And you're a friend of Margaery's, then?"

"Yes," says Sansa, smiling back, though her heart is beating rather fast. "And you must be... Mrs. Bara—"

"—Lannister," corrects the blonde woman, almost sharply. "Mrs. Lannister."

"Nice to meet you. Thank you for letting me visit—your home is amazingly beautiful."

"It is, isn't it?" Cersei Lannister looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time, and then her gaze comes back to Sansa. Joffrey seems to be growing bored with the discussion; he turns to one of his friends, a dark-haired boy with a cruel mouth, and begins to speak in a low voice. Cersei ignores it, and instead walks over to Sansa and Margaery, each step almost unbearably graceful.

 _She's so young,_ thinks Sansa. _And so incredibly beautiful._ She is almost astonished.

"You go to school with Margaery?"

"Yes."

"Providence is a very good school," says Cersei, narrowing her eyes a little, as if studying Sansa for defects, for flaws. "I have a... well, a previous associate who works there, now. His last name is Baelish."

Something inside of Sansa sinks like a stone. She recalls, much too vividly, the feeling of his hand on her leg, the weight of his eyes as she stood there struggling into her blouse. And instantly she acknowledges the strangeness of it, too—why would Cersei Lannister associate herself with a high school English teacher?

The blonde woman smiles a rather perceptive smile. "He wasn't always an English teacher. You're one of his students?" Sansa nods. "He's an intelligent man, I suppose. But he has his... weaknesses."

There is no mistaking the meaning in the woman's voice; Sansa feels a little chill creep down her spine. For a single absurd moment she wants to confess, to tell the woman how he'd touched her, how he'd trailed his hand up her thigh. How he _frightens_ her. But she doesn't, of course, for a million different reasons—not the least among them that Dany told her to be wary of the Lannisters. So instead, she just smiles.

"You're a very pretty girl," continues Cersei, in a very cool tone of voice, and Sansa flushes. "You and Margaery both. Are you dating anyone?"

It is such an odd question that Sansa hesitates.

"Ah—um, yes."

"What school does he go to?"

For a moment, Sansa doesn't know what to say.

"He's homeschooled." That's Margaery, her voice so warm and so sure, protecting Sansa once again.

"Mm." Cersei's lovely face is unreadable, though she smiles kindly enough. "Well. It was nice to meet you, Sansa Stark. If you need anything, just ask Joffrey. He'll make sure you have it." For the first time Sansa detects a hint of a foreign accent in the woman's words. Norwegian? "Good night, girls."

 _Maybe she isn't so bad,_ thinks Sansa, as the golden-haired woman glides away. _At least she's not like Baelish._

Margaery takes Sansa's hand then, and squeezes it. Sansa looks down and shyly interlaces their fingers, for no other reason than simply wanting to touch the other girl—in whatever way she can. _I shouldn't do even this,_ she thinks to herself, even as she stands there dwelling in the soft gentle light of Margaery's smile, the other girl's eyes oddly hot on her face.

"Margaery!" That's Joff's voice, cutting, the voice of someone who is not often used to being disobeyed. "Come over here and try this Macallan my dad just got."

Sansa feels Margaery tug her hand away to go to him, and this makes her sadder than it should.

x.  
They sit in the beautiful room, Margaery between Joffrey and Sansa on the couch—much to Sansa's relief.

Five of Joffrey's friends are present. She expects they are all seniors, like him, because they have a strange adultness to them that Sansa herself does not possess, though she is not much younger. They are well-dressed and most of them are also attractive in the groomed, stylistic way of the wealthy. At first these boys seem perfectly nice, yet kindness is not enough to put Sansa at ease. Not anymore.

They all drink, except for Margaery. Even Sansa has a little whiskey when Margaery offers that the other girl can just stay the night at her house. The idea makes Sansa spectacularly nervous—remembering quite vividly what had happened the last time she’d slept over—but she doesn't have a car and wouldn't drive anyway, if she'd been drinking beforehand. Still, Sansa is very cautious not to have too much of the whiskey, afraid of what she might do if she did.

 _I might kiss her again,_ thinks Sansa, guilt strumming her heart. _But I'd never do that to Dany._ She thinks of the incredibly striking blonde girl, the almost-violet eyes, her exquisite skin. _What's wrong with me?_

Sansa feels, a little, as though all she'd been before was slowly slipping away. She has not been praying as much as she used to; she is also more comfortable with the idea of who she is. Yet she cannot tell whether this is ultimately a good thing or not. _And the guilt doesn't leave, either, not really. Even when I don't feel it directly, I sense it looming. It comes when I feel weak. And then I start to think of Bran and Rickon's faces..._ Sansa wonders if she ever properly grieved.

Margaery must see the look on her face, for she turns away from the conversation she's having. "You okay?"

"Oh... Yeah. Definitely. I was just thinking about something." Sansa looks at Margaery carefully. "Are _you_ okay?” There is an expression on Margaery’s face that seems entirely unfamiliar, and Sansa can’t read it.

“Me?” Margaery smiles, and Sansa thinks that most other people would be fooled by it—but she’s studied every curve of the other girl’s face, every sloping expression and inconsequential twitch, and so knows instantly that the other girl isn’t telling the truth when she continues. “I’m fine. What do you mean?”

Sansa does not want to acknowledge the truth of it: that they’re lying to one another, and doing it rather well. What this means, exactly, she doesn’t know. So she just mumbles something under her breath, reaches out to pat Margaery’s hand, which is between them on the couch—Sansa can’t help it, she isn’t good at _not touching_ her. Besides, friends pat each other’s hands, even if they don’t usually look into one another’s eyes with the exact same sort of intensity that Margaery is doing now. As if pleading for Sansa to understand.

 _What does she want me to see?_ Sansa looks back at the brunette, but only for a moment, unable to fathom whatever questions lie in her doe-like gaze.

“So... is it true what they say about Providence?” That’s a boy’s voice, almost as coy as Margaery’s can be, and Sansa tears her glance away to look at him. He’s the most attractive of Joffrey’s friends, with curly dark hair and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s smiling at Sansa in a way that makes her acutely nervous. It is utterly familiar.

“What do they say, Jake?” Margaery’s tone matches his, but there is something sharp underneath it. A warning.

“That you’re all undercover lesbians, obviously.” Jake drains his glass and sets it carefully down on the table. “What do you think? It’s a private all-girls school.”

Margaery cocks her head innocently. “Does that mean... every guy who goes to _your_ school is gay? Because the last time I checked, it was a private all-boys school.” Sansa bites her lip to keep from smiling.

Joffrey surprises Sansa by laughing; it isn’t a kind sound. “He probably wishes.”

Jake looks at the beautiful blonde boy, irritated, but clearly knows better than to speak up against him. Instead he turns back to Sansa. “You didn’t answer.” He is toying with her, and Sansa decides she doesn’t like it. It reminds her all too much of California, and she is suddenly queasy.

“No,” Sansa says, simply, for her mouth is too dry to manage much else. She reaches for her glass of water.

“That’s not what I’ve—“

“—where is the restroom?” Sansa stands up with a jolt. “Sorry—I think I drank more than I thought.” It is a lie; she’s barely had anything. But it’s enough.

“Down the hall to the left.” Joffrey’s gaze is both lazy and cruel, an admirable feat, but he does nothing to stop her as she darts from the room.

A few moments later Sansa is standing at the elegant bathroom mirror, staring at her own reflection. The light is flattering enough, but she sees the hollows in her cheeks, the traces of dark circles underneath her eyes. She looks like a startled deer.

 _They’re just like..._ Sansa gives a little sigh. _They’re just like the guys who befriended me, told me that I was beautiful, and introduced me to her._ She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. _Rich and good-looking, and... they looked at me in the exact same way._

There is a knock at the bathroom door, and Sansa swallows. “Sorry, one minute.”

“It’s me, Sans.”

“Oh.” Sansa turns and unlocks the door; Margaery steps into the bathroom. The warm golden light falls across her face, illuminating her eyes. There are no hollows in Margaery’s cheeks, no dark circles shadowing her gaze. She is perfect.

“You barely drank anything. Are you sick?” Margaery presses the back of her hand to Sansa’s forehead.

“No,” says Sansa, willing herself to be still. “Maybe it was something I ate.”

“Maybe.” Margaery draws her hand away. For a moment they simply look at one another, and then the brunette sighs. “Are you ever going to tell me, Sansa?”

“—What? Tell you what?”

“Tell me about whatever it was that made you... like this.”

“I don’t—“

“You can be so jumpy and nervous,” says Margaery, softly. “You get this scared look in your eyes sometimes, and at other times... you look like you’re really far away, like you’re trying to forget. And you get so sad. You put on this mask, but I feel like you’re hiding something. I wouldn’t pry, but I care. Maybe more than I should.”

“We’re all hiding things,” says Sansa, and she doesn’t know why she says it, but she does.

“Yeah,” says Margaery, her expression so solemn that it looks profoundly sad. “But we’re not all hiding things that are killing us inside.”

Margaery has the last word, as she so often does. She leaves Sansa standing there in the bathroom, shrouded in her own silence. The space between them threatens to engulf Sansa, eat her alive.

_How am I supposed to admit it to you if I can’t even admit it to myself?_

x.  
It is later, when they’re just about to leave, that Joffrey grabs Sansa’s arm. Holds her back as the others leave the room.

“You should probably stay away from the blonde bitch,” he says, “If you know what’s good for you.”

Sansa twists a little in his grasp, but all he does is tighten his grip.

“What?” Her heart is beating somewhere in her throat. “I don’t—“

“You know who I’m talking about.” His expression is particularly cruel in the soft light that falls across his face.

“Did you tell Margaery the same thing? I _know_ that you know Dany.” Sansa all but blurts it out, an unusual anger welling in her chest, vivid and hot. And almost immediately she regrets it.

For one mad moment she thinks Joffrey is going to do something violent. She can’t say why, exactly, she thinks this—but it’s something in the way he looks at her, in the way his hand tightens again, almost painfully, around her upper arm. But he does nothing.

“Tell Margaery what happened between Dany and me, and I’ll make you regret it,” he says, and there is nothing in his demeanor that suggests he would not follow through on this threat. “Tell her that this conversation happened, and I’ll make you regret that, too.”

Sansa is lightheaded. “Why do you care who I’m friends with?”

“Because she’ll fucking ruin it,” he replies shortly, as if the answer were obvious. “Like she fucking ruined everything else.”

Sansa is barely breathing; she wants to flee, but his hand is still tight around her arm. “You think I can’t be friends with Dany because I’m close to Margaery? But _Margaery_ is friends with Dany, too—“

“—not for long,” says Joffrey, and at last he steps back, releases his hold on Sansa. His golden hair almost gleams. He looks at her for a moment. “She’s obsessed with fixing things, by the way. Dany, I mean. Are you her newest project?” He almost spits the words.

Sansa stands there rubbing her arm after he leaves the room, head spinning. Joffrey’s words play over again and again in her mind, ringing with a deadly significance. She wants to go _home_ ; she wants to call Jon, or Robb, or her dad. She wants to be safe again. And so she is startled half out of her mind when she feels her phone vibrate in her purse.

 _Lady keeps hiding my shoes... Plz train ur dog._ It’s a text from her sister, and there’s an image attached of Lady curled up, eyes closed, at Arya’s feet.

Sansa lets out a little shuddering laugh. _You have to protect them, this time,_ she thinks.

She smooths down her skirt and slips her phone back into her purse, and follows Joffrey out of the house.

x.  
It’s late when they pull into Margaery’s driveway. Night has settled over the Tyrell estate like a shroud, and for a moment they simply sit underneath the bright lights of Margaery’s extensive garage, perfectly silent. At last the other girl speaks.

“You’re acting funny,” she says.

“I’m tired,” Sansa replies, and it’s not a lie.

“So am I,” says Margaery, and reaches over to squeeze Sansa’s hand. The gesture reminds Sansa of her mother. “Come on.”

They creep into the house. Margaery’s parents are not waiting for them, but they have left a stern note, and Margaery slips away to placate them while Sansa slips underneath the sheets of Margaery’s bed. It feels odd, sleeping in the other girl’s bed after all that’s happened between them, but she hadn’t protested when Margaery led her towards the bedroom. _It’s fine,_ she tells herself now, turning on her side, away from the door. _I don’t want to sleep alone after everything that happened tonight, anyway._

In about ten minutes or so she hears the door open and then close once more, followed by the sound of soft footsteps across the floor. Margaery. Sansa feels the bed shift as the other girl climbs into it. She senses that they’re both holding on to a number of things that they don’t want to say. Sansa closes her eyes.

“Sansa?” Margaery’s whisper is very soft. Her bedroom smells of roses. “Are you asleep?”

Sansa doesn’t respond. Her head is full of what happened in the classroom, of what Dany had said to her. Of Joffrey’s threat. She doesn’t know what to say about any of these things, or even if she should say anything about them at all. Fear coils within her—not fear of Margaery, but of the beautiful blonde boy and what he may do. _I know what people are capable of,_ she thinks, and so she does not say a word.

“I guess you’re asleep,” continues Margaery in that soft voice. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

Sansa’s eyes open slowly, but her back is to Margaery, a wall between them.

“I know it’s stupid,” Margaery whispers, and there is a trace of stubbornness in her voice now. “But I am sorry. I’m sorry for whatever it is that I can’t protect you from.”

Sansa stares into the dark and opens her mouth a little as if she wants to speak, yet no words struggle out. She wants to turn over and hold the other girl very tight to her, as if drowning. She nearly aches with the desire to do it. Instead she remains very still, though the shy light of the moon throws a glitter onto the tears standing in her open eyes.

Sansa shutters her eyelids against the world and doesn’t let them fall.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	18. facades

x.

The sun’s light is still soft when Sansa creeps back into her house, but it is to no avail.

Her parents are waiting for her, anyway, sitting at the burnished kitchen table with expressions caught between concern and irritation. Her mother’s lovely face is strained, and her father looks particularly solemn.

“I… forgot to call you,” she says, honestly enough, before they have the chance to say anything. “I just—I had a really crazy night. I’m sorry.”

“We called _you_ several times,” says Catelyn, sounding more weary than anything else. Sansa knows her mother, though, and so she senses more than a hint of exasperation lurking beneath that dignified surface. Catelyn rises from the kitchen table and smooths the front of her blouse. “Did you not have your phone on?”

“It was on vibrate,” says Sansa, hesitant. “When did you—oh, no. You must have called after I got to Margaery’s, and my phone was in my purse.” She hasn’t checked her phone since last night, being so utterly distracted by Joffrey, by Dany, by Margaery. By everything.

“We waited and waited,” says her father. “We didn’t call you until it was really late, Sansa.” Ned sighs, rubs at his tired eyes. “You’ve never done this sort of thing before.” There doesn’t seem to be much anger in him: just relief that she’s alive. Sansa feels the familiar sensation of guilt boiling hot in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, again, at a loss. “I just—I wasn’t _thinking._ ”

“Sansa,” says Catelyn, in a gentle voice, though Sansa can hear the steel underneath it. “Are you all right? Did anything happen?”

Sansa’s mouth opens, but she finds that she has absolutely no idea what to say.

She can't tell them, of course. She can’t tell them about any of it. Not about Dany, not about being caught by Baelish in the classroom, not about Joffrey Baratheon. Even now she feels herself shy away from the very thought.

_I’ve put them through enough hell. First California, and the fire, and Bran and Rickon… and Mom’s depression. She only is just getting better. I can’t hurt them again—I can’t._

And so she lies to them, again. It’s easy enough. _Just a little lie,_ she tells herself. _It’s just one little lie._

“No,” she says. “I was just… having too much fun, I guess. I forgot to call and ask if I could stay at Margaery’s. I’m sorry… I understand if you’re going to punish me. I really do.”

It’s enough, in the end, to placate them. Yet Sansa can tell that her mother does not fully believe her; there is an old sadness in her eyes.

 _She knows that I’m lying,_ she thinks. _She just doesn’t know why._

She is dying to apologize, to sit down with her mother and explain everything to her, as she has not done in years. She is dying to tell the truth. But she’s fallen far enough from grace, and she’s disappointed them in too many ways.

_Protect them. Protect yourself._

But Sansa doesn’t really know how.

 

x.

Sansa had always been the golden girl. Or at the very least, she did so look like one, on the surface. She still does.

Even as a child she was well-mannered, bright, frequently smiling. And, even then, she often drew eyes like flies to honey. Her beauty was what set her apart, even more than her academic talents did: Sansa passed through no observable ‘awkward stage’, dealt with no overly disastrous calamities in the midst of puberty. Her thick auburn hair, broad cheekbones and snowy skin—all gifts from Catelyn—have been the envy of many other girls over the years, and Sansa is fully aware that she is fortunate in this.

Back out west, before it all went so wrong and they’d left, her friends had adored her. Her friends’ parents had adored her. Her teachers had adored her. _Boys_ had adored her. Boys and men both.

The problem, of course, was that Sansa had found herself utterly incapable of returning any of these boys’ feelings. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had any romantic notions about the opposite sex in the past—she had. But now, she realizes, these had likely occurred because she’d so desperately been trying to normalize herself, to fit in. Her parents themselves had never been overtly religious or homophobic, but Sansa knew what a girl like her was _supposed_ to act like, in this world. She knew what she was _supposed_ to want.

And she wasn’t supposed to want other girls.

The fact that she’d always been religiously-inclined did not make things any easier. Even now, Sansa sometimes reaches for the crucifix that had always hung at her throat, instinctively. And then she always remembers. _I gave it to Margaery._

Yet despite the world’s expectations, despite religion, despite her own unease—Sansa does think that she could have handled it, handled it all in stride. (Maybe.)

If she hadn’t fallen in with the wrong crowd. If she hadn’t become infatuated with the wrong girl. If the video hadn’t played in the cafeteria. If they hadn’t decided to bring her low, to try and make her as ugly as they were.

If the fire had never happened.

 

x.

Sansa is about to flee upstairs when she hears the sound of Lady’s paws on the floorboards, followed by a familiar voice:

“Lady! Lady—get back here!”

She can’t help but smile a little as she heads into the next room. Lady is darting towards her, trotting almost delicately on the floorboards, and behind her Jon follows wearily with a leash in hand.

“Your _dog_ ,” he says, by way of greeting. “Have you even bothered training her?”

“She listens to me,” says Sansa with a tiny grin, kneeling. Lady burrows her head into Sansa’s chest and gives a happy little whine.

“Great,” Jon says ruefully, approaching slowly from behind. “Don’t let her move, okay? Arya wants me to walk them with her and yours has been successfully evading me for about ten whole minutes.”

“You have to speak softly,” says Sansa, as if it were completely obvious. But she holds Lady’s collar anyway as Jon comes over with the leash.

“I tried that,” her brother says, sounding slightly exasperated. “Okay… got it.” He stands again. “You want to come with us? I’ve only got an hour or so—I’m meeting up with Ygritte later.”

Some part of Sansa wants nothing more than to call Dany and see if the other girl has spoken with Margaery, yet. But it's still terribly early, and she doesn't see Jon as much as she'd like to.

And so the three of them take to the long, winding sidewalk outside of the Stark house. They make an interesting trio: Jon and Arya look quite alike, for all that Jon is adopted, and Sansa is an anomaly between them, with the fire in her long hair, and her lighter eyes to their grey. Their styles are very different: Jon dresses in an offhand, stylish-by-accident way that girls seem to love, and Arya mixes and matches her clothing to a point where Sansa sometimes feels morally obligated to take her sister shopping. (Arya always refuses, perhaps wisely.) Sansa, for her part, is dressed in a well-made sweater, dark jeans and ankle boots. Simple, but very flattering—and Sansa knows this. She’s always had her mother’s eye for detail when it comes to clothing, after all.

As they walk Sansa drifts in and out of her own thoughts, both tightly-wound and distant. When she blinks she sees images of the night before hot against her eyelids: the closet, Dany's white face, Margaery's knowing, sad smile.

“…and I said, _no,_ you can’t just steal my dog. Like, Jesus.”

“What?” Sansa snaps back to the present conversation.

“That neighbor kid,” says Arya. “He’s _obsessed_ with Nymeria.”

“Obsessed with Nymeria, or obsessed with you?” Sansa smiles sweetly, and Jon coughs.

“Will you stop playing matchmaker? You’re really shitty at it.” But Arya clearly isn’t angry. “Jon, you know, this Gendry guy—he’s adopted, too.”

“Yeah? And how old is he?”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, you two. Leave me—oh, fuck. Hide me.”

Of course Sansa and Jon do no such thing.

The figure coming towards them on the sidewalk is none other than Arya’s mysterious neighbor boy. From a distance, Sansa is almost alarmed—he is rather tall, and she immediately takes him for older than he actually is. As he draws nearer, however, she sees that he can’t be older than she is.

 _Good looking, too,_ she notes, despite herself. His hair is dark: coal-black, sea-black, and his features are very attractive in an honest, open way. The dog he walks is a breed that Sansa is unfamiliar with, but it’s large and beautiful with the most incredible eyes.

“Hello,” she says, smiling, as they draw nearer to one another. _His_ eyes are incredible, too, she realizes—a striking, crystalline blue.

“Hey,” he says, and returns the smile, though his eyes flicker first to Arya.

“Oh, hey, Gendry.” Nymeria and Lady are inspecting the new dog carefully, but their tails are wagging. “So… this my brother, Jon. And my sister, Sansa.”

Sansa almost laughs at Arya’s tone of voice. Her little sister is trying very hard to sound nonchalant and not entirely succeeding. Gendry probably doesn’t notice, but Sansa does, and so she guesses that Jon does, too. They'd always had a special bond, Arya and Jon.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, rather politely. “I’m Gendry. I live across from you.”

Sansa is utterly tempted to say _Yes, Arya’s told me,_ but somehow manages to refrain from doing so. Gendry shakes Jon’s hand, and then hers. His grip is firm and sure. Sansa finds herself liking him almost instantly, though she is not sure why.

“Beautiful dog,” Jon says. “What is he?”

“She’s a mutt,” says Gendry. “Not sure what she is. But her name's Lyanna."

"Like our aunt," says Arya, crouching now, so that she can pet the gorgeous dog properly. "How weird is that?"

Sansa sees Jon grin.

They speak together for five or ten minutes, Sansa observing Arya out of the corner of her eye all the while. She’s never seen her sister so self-conscious before. Arya has always been confident, bold, sometimes to excess. She certainly has never been nervous around the opposite sex. Arya _likes_ boys well enough, Sansa knows, but that was as far as it went. She can't remember her sister fixating on someone in particular. But then, Sansa acknowledges, there must be a lot that Arya doesn't tell her.

Finally they say goodbye, and Gendry goes on his way. Sansa and Jon exchange a look, but mercifully say nothing.

It is not until they’re walking back up their driveway, nearly an hour later, that Sansa feels her phone vibrate in her back pocket. She drops Lady’s leash in her haste to see who it is.

_Dany._

 

x.

“…and so have you called Margaery?” Sansa shuts her bedroom door firmly behind her.

“No, not yet.” She can hear the other girl sigh. “I’m leaving to go over to her house in twenty minutes. You’re coming with me.” She pauses. “Can you?”

“Yes,” says Sansa, rather emphatically. “Of course. I don’t think my parents will mind. I just need to shower.”

“Good.” Dany’s voice softens a little. “Thanks, Sans. I’ll come get you. And…”

“What?”

“I’m sorry for not telling you the truth before.”

"It's okay," says Sansa. "I understand. I know what it's like. To need to hide things, I mean."

She can't help but wince a little, at the admission. _I know all too well._

 

x.

“Since when do you smoke?”

The window of Dany’s Jeep is down, and the blonde girl is ashing a cigarette out of it when Sansa swings the passenger side door open.

“What?—Oh.” Dany glances at the cigarette in her hand. “Only when I’m nervous, really. I bite my nails sometimes, too.” She extends a delicate hand and Sansa can see that some of the perfetly-applied black nail polish has been chewed right off. It’s so unlike the other girl to do something as inelegant as bite her own nails that Sansa actually pauses for a moment.

“Do you want one?”

“Sorry—what?”

“A cigarette.”

“Oh,” says Sansa, smiling, suddenly a little shy. “I don’t smoke. But thanks.”

Dany surprises her by giggling. “Of course you don’t.” She twists the keys in the ignition and they take off down the broad, tree-lined street.

For a few minutes they sit in comfortable silence. Sansa twists her hands together in her lap, lost in her own thoughts again, and presumes that the other girl is lost in hers. _So many things go unspoken between people,_ she thinks to herself. _How do you know when to tell the truth? The whole truth?_

“You know—“ Sansa almost blurts it out and instantly regrets it, but she has Dany’s attention now, and the other girl isn’t good at letting go of things.

Dany exhales smoke. “What is it?”

“When we were leaving Joffrey’s last night… he held me back. Grabbed my arm.”

“He did _what_?”

“He told me to stay away from you,” Sansa says. “He said… that Margaery and I should both stay away from you.”

Dany is frowning, but says nothing. Sansa takes this as a sign to continue.

“Then he said… said something about you ruining things. And asked me if I was your newest project.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what he meant.”

”Christ.” Sansa looks over at Dany and sees the blonde girl frowning. For a few moments neither of them say anything at all, until:

“I’m really sorry, Sansa. I can’t believe he did that. Well, actually, I can. He’s such a—“ Dany cuts herself off.

Sansa just glances back at the road, uneasy. “Do you think Margaery is going to listen to you?”

“She will,” says Dany, simply, as if she expects the world to bend, shape itself according to her will. “She has to.”

 

x.

The Tyrell home is vibrant with life when they arrive. Margaery greets them at the front door wearing a shirt dress and a vaguely troubled expression that she smooths over as soon as her eyes meet Sansa’s.

“My dad’s going crazy with work stuff,” she explains as she lets them in. “ _And_ my grandmother’s here. She’s my favorite person in the entire world, but she thinks she needs to give me a lesson in third-wave feminism right now, and—“ She inhales. “I barely got away alive.”

Sansa knows of Margaery's grandmother—more specifically, she's shamelessly Googled her in the past. Olenna Redwyne, illustrious matriarch of the Tyrell family. The prospect of actually meeting the woman terrifies and thrills her in equal measure; Sansa isn't as politically savvy as some, and indeed she much prefers studying literature to studying politics, but she would be honored to meet Margaery's grandmother nonetheless. Some other time, maybe, when Dany doesn't look as though she's prepared to claw someone's face off if they so much as glance at her the wrong way.

Margaery guides them through her home briskly, presumably to evade the potential interrogation of her parents should the girls come across them. Sansa is still almost knocked over by a man rushing by with a laptop and an impressive mountain of papers in his arms, and they are also intercepted briefly by Loras, who has returned home for the weekend. He greets Dany and Sansa with a smile that is so reminiscent of his sister's that it makes her oddly sad, for some reason that she can't quite explain.

Finally they reach Margaery's room, and the brunette shuts the door firmly behind them. The air smells of roses, like always—Margaery's favorite perfume. Dany is so close behind her that Sansa make out the scent she wears, too, faint under the lingering cigarette smoke. It is something low and heady. She doesn't know which one she likes better, and chides herself silently for even trying to choose.

Dany kicks off her ankle boots and settles herself on Margaery's huge bed. She sits, Sansa thinks, much like a queen—her posture is immaculate, her chin lifted a little, her fingers interlaced in her lap. Margaery, barefoot, joins her.

Sansa studies the two of them for a moment, the one girl who seems to be made all of hard gilded light, and the other of sunshine, a yielding summer. Dany's hair looks almost silvery in the cool dimness of the bedroom, and Margaery's is warm, shining. Loose curls that Sansa wants to wind around her fingers, despite herself. The instant that Sansa recognizes the impulse, she has to resist the urge to shy away from both of them in equal measure. Being around the Tyrell girl has always been dangerous. Maybe it is even more dangerous now than it was before.

 _Margaery isn't yours,_ Sansa reminds herself. _She never has been._ She wonders if it would be easier, if things were different, and they could belong to one another for at least a little while. Just for a little while, she thinks, and that could be enough—she'd make it be enough.

The thoughts come unbidden and Sansa feels guilty for even having thought them at all. She's happy with Dany, with the way things are between them. She thinks that there must be something wrong with her, to still want so desperately what is out of her reach.

 _Sometimes I wish I could make my heart go numb._ But doing nothing, feeling nothing, can be the most difficult task of all.

"...wolf girl? Hey!" There's a smile in Margaery's voice, and Sansa comes back to herself with a tiny, imperceptible shudder.

"Sorry," Sansa says, with a fleeting ghost of a smile, and climbs up on the bed to reach them. She brushes Margaery's thigh accidentally with her hand as she maneuvers around her; the other girl's skin is silken. She blushes a little, feeling stupid as she does so. _Why does she make me feel like such an idiot?_

Margaery either doesn't notice or kindly pretends not to.

"It's chaos downstairs," she says, after Sansa has seated herself next to Dany.

"I noticed," says Dany.

Margaery raises her eyebrows, both animated and pristine at once. "You know how it is. My dad gets flustered kind of easily, and my grandmother pretty much eats all of the underperforming aides alive." She smiles, and there is a wickedness in it. "I should really be more like her."

"You _are_ like her," says Dany. "But Margaery—"

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me." Margaery is blithe, carefree, and Sansa doesn't want to ruin her good mood, but she says it, anyway.

"Margaery..." Sansa is hesitant. "It's about Joffrey."

"Joff?" Margaery is so good at schooling her facial expressions when she must that Sansa almost doesn't catch the flicker of unease that briefly shadows her face. But it is for a moment only. The next, she is just Margaery again, sweet and sure with the faintest of smiles still lingering on her catlike face. "What about him?"

Dany looks her friend straight in the eye and doesn't mince words. "I lied to you. I met him—I met him when I first came to the States, before I knew you."

The smile does leave Margaery's face now, but she says nothing.

"And I know what you're thinking," continues Dany, a little more carefully now. "You're wondering why I didn't tell you. I was... afraid. Because of him." She seems reluctant to admit to any sort of weakness, particularly fear. It makes something in Sansa's chest constrict.

"You're never afraid," says Margaery, at last, and Sansa realizes with some shock that this is the first time she's ever seen the other girl without a witty retort at the ready. Whether she's been rendered practically speechless by the fact that Dany and Joffrey have been lying or by the fact that Dany is frightened, Sansa can't tell. _Maybe it's neither. Maybe she honestly didn't know what kind of person he is._ But Sansa finds that thought very hard to swallow.

"I'm not afraid of him as much as I'm afraid of his family," says Dany, with a slight fierceness to her tone. "Margaery, you're not stupid. You're the opposite of stupid. So what are you _doing?_ "

Margaery doesn't answer the question. "You were friends with him?"

"Something like that." The blonde girl blinks, as if to focus her eyes. "And he told me that if I ever mentioned this to you, he'd make my life a living hell."

Margaery's expression wilts with something aching and gentle. _Love,_ Sansa thinks, and it's so vivid and clear on Margaery's face that she is sure Dany will be appeased. _She and Dany love each other; it’ll be fine._ She's wrong, though, and she's also utterly unprepared for what comes next.

"Christ, Margaery, you can't be blind to all of this!" There's an old anger in Dany's voice. "This is just like when you dated that former congressman's son last spring, that raging asshole, remember? Except this time, it's worse, because Joffrey Baratheon is an absolute monster."

"If Joffrey ever tried anything, Loras would kill him."

"Why do you do this?" Dany's expression is tight. "You take on these _projects_ —"

"—Come on, Dany." Margaery doesn't look angry, but she does shake her head a little. "I'm not the only one who takes on 'projects'."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You like to save things," says Margaery.

This rings uncomfortably of what Joffrey had said to Sansa the night before, and something twists sharply in her gut. _Am I just something that Dany wants to fix?_ She doesn’t look too closely at the thought; she can’t bear to.

"Maybe," says Dany, rather fiercely. "But saving people is better than manipulating them."

The silence is a winter between them; Sansa doesn't know where to look, or if she should even dare to breathe and shatter the perfection of it. She feels, quite strongly, as if she is intruding on something intensely private. She almost wants to leave, but it doesn't seem as though it would be right to move.

"Is that how you feel?" Margaery's voice is still even, but it's razor-sharp now.

"That's what I know." Dany's anger shimmers in the air almost like heat. "You're such a politician, and you think you're invincible, and so you date these guys from prestigious backgrounds who you don't even care about—"

"—Dany—"

"—And you think you have everyone fooled, but you don't, Margaery. I _love_ you, and I'm not going to pretend that you don't have this weird fixation—"

"—Dany," says Margaery, again. "I love you, too, but I can look out for myself. You know that."

Dany slides off the bed and shoves her feet into her boots. "You're not even listening to me, are you? I don't know why I thought you would."

"I’m _listening_. Dany, wait. You can’t seriously think that—"

But the other girl is already gone, leaving nothing behind but the sound of a closing door. Sansa feels that she should follow Dany, go after her, but something keeps her rooted to the spot. Maybe it’s the look on Margaery’s face: hard, absolute. Maybe it’s something else.

Either way, she remains there, gazing down at her hands. Between the two of them there is so much more than space now; there is a distance that Sansa is afraid cannot be crossed. Her head is spinning from the exchange between the two other girls: _What did I just see?_ She feels like an intruder in their world for the very first time. It’s something she hasn’t experienced yet in New Forest, not even during her first day at Providence. _Because Margaery was there for me, that first day. She was already there._

When Sansa looks back up, Margaery is gazing at her. There is a firmness to the other girl's slightly-trembling mouth, but it's not anger. It's the same look that Margaery had when she stood outside of Sansa's house, the necklace tight in her fist and a dozen things unspoken on her lips. Go after her, that look says, leave me.

Sansa does not move, and it's not even for Margaery that she stays.

 _I'm so sick of lies,_ she thinks now, and with a startling clarity. _I want the truth._

 

x.

The silence unfolds between them painlessly, but Sansa can feel her heart pounding bone-white in her chest.

Margaery is still burning hot from her argument with Dany, yet her eyes are strangely vacant when she speaks. "She's probably waiting for you."

"I just texted her," Sansa replies. "I said that she could go."

Margaery is apparently not sure what to make of this; it's obviously not the answer she expected. She looks at Sansa almost warily, and Sansa can sense the uneasiness in her, the way she is perched, unwillingly, at the edge of some unbearable height. The other girl is close to being honest with her, she realizes, and Sansa is afraid that she will say the wrong thing, ignite whatever nameless fears lay within Margaery, chase her away. And so for a moment, she hesitates. But just for a moment.

"Tell me," she says. "Tell me why you're dating him." _Instead of me._

For a horrible moment Margaery's face glosses over, takes on the self-assured sheen that it always has at school, at parties. That familiar, formidable face.

And then she meets Sansa's gaze again and the mask absolutely crumbles. She looks, Sansa thinks, very young. But the vulnerability in the other girl's expression does little to ease the ache of the blow.

"We're moving," Margaery says, eventually. Her voice is hard. "My family's moving. To Highgarden."

She gives a sad smile to Sansa, who is sitting there, voiceless.

"I can lose him, and stand it," she says, simply. "But I can't say the same about you."

There is more to it than that, Sansa knows—knows it as strongly as she knows that fire burns, and night turns to light. There has to be, because there is an odd fragility in Margaery's expression, an echo of her own fear. But Sansa has been stunned back into silence, and so for a long time there is no sound to be heard but the uneven measure of their breathing. _So dictate your heart,_ she tells herself, as if it were easy. _Make it numb._ And yet all Sansa feels is a dull ache.

 _This isn't how it goes, in books,_ she thinks to herself, strangely. Of course Sansa knows by now that life is no fairy tale, but a not-so-little part of her had been holding out for some sort of happy ending. _This can't be how it ends._

"In the middle of your senior year?" Sansa says, at last. There is a weakness in her voice that she despises. "Really?"

"Some things aren't meant to be," Margaery replies, softly. "You know how it goes, Sansa."

"So—that's why?"

"I've never liked a girl before," Margaery says. Her eyes are even wider than usual, giving her an innocent cast. "I don't know where you came from. You just... appeared." She sounds weary.

 _And now I'm dating someone else,_ thinks Sansa. _Someone who I really like—someone who never has asked me to be anyone but myself._

"I need to be in control." Margaery's mouth twists into something that faintly resembles a smile. "With you, I'm not."

 _You should have let go,_ thinks Sansa, not for the first time. _You should have tried._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	19. albatross

x.

Deep autumn continues to cast a somber shadow over New Forest, as the days shorten and the nights grow more bitter with every passage of light and dark.

Sansa is no stranger to the chill in the air, though. Her family comes from the north, close to the border of Canada, and it was only a business venture that brought them to southern California in the first place. Even now, she has to flinch away from the thought—even now. _One day it will grow easier,_ she tells herself, _One day this won’t hurt._

But Bran and Rickon are gone forever, and Sansa’s heart feels sundered.

It will be her first birthday without them, and Sansa, usually so good at pushing certain things from her mind, finds she cannot hide from the truth of it any longer. She has worked hard enough to stop thinking about them, even though the act itself seems close to blasphemy. She can’t _help_ it; the grief is enough to swallow her whole when she looks at it directly, and it is easier to survive, to live, when their faces are not hovering like ghosts in her vision.

One night, just a few days before her seventeenth birthday, Sansa is sitting on her bed paging through old photographs when she hears a knock on her bedroom door.

“Yes?” Sansa wipes at her eyes, but it’s no use; her skin is so pale that she knows she must look a terrible mess.

“Hey,” comes Arya’s voice, almost hesitant. “Can I come in?”

“Since when do you knock?”

Arya slinks into the room almost like a cat; she can be disconcertingly silent when she chooses. She’s wearing an oversized sweater that Sansa has never seen before, but Sansa decides that now is not the best time to pry.

“Since I heard you sniffling like that,” says Arya, as if it were completely obvious. “Duh.”

“About time you begin to respect boundaries,” says Sansa, but her heart isn’t in it and Arya just ignores her. Instead she climbs up next to her sister on the bed and bends over the photos.

“Rickon looks like a mini-Robb here,” she says, and Sansa wonders at the ease with which she speaks the words. “Right?”

Sansa says nothing for a long time. And then;

“I tried so hard to ignore the fact that they were gone.” She can’t help it; tears rise to her eyes, again. “And it worked. I feel like such a—“

“—You’re not a _monster_.” Arya’s voice is hard.

“Then why do I feel like one?”

“Because it’s the safe thing for you to do,” her sister says, simply. “You turn your anger on yourself.”

The photographs have gone blurry; Sansa’s eyesight is swimming in dusty lights. One blink and the tears spill hot down on her face. “Since when did you get so smart?”

But her little sister is intent now, and there’s never any chance of stopping Arya from saying what’s on her mind.

“You didn’t kill them, Sansa.” There is an awful sound in Arya’s voice, almost as if she’s on the verge of tears, too. _She won’t cry, though,_ Sansa knows. _Not when I’m here._ “You twisted it around in your head, I get it. But you didn’t kill them.”

For a horrible moment Sansa is afraid that she’s going to start sobbing. And then, strangely, it passes—Arya’s words calm her rather than excite her. An odd sense of tranquility settles over her shoulders, cool and light as a winter kiss, and Sansa takes in a great breath and finds that the tears have stopped stinging the back of her eyes. Bran and Rickon are gone, and they won’t be coming back. This realization comes to her on little cat feet, treading lightly, rubbing itself against her knuckles, and Sansa does not flinch away.

Gone, gone, gone.

 _I didn’t kill them._ This thought comes to her dully, with none of the elegance of the aforementioned realization. _I didn’t kill my brothers._ Such a simple thing to acknowledge. Yet there’s so much weight to it, too.

For a while Sansa says nothing, just looks at her sister as Arya goes through the old photographs on the bed. Her throat is very dry, and she feels as though she just ran a long distance carrying something impossibly heavy all the while. She shivers a little, and then begins to inspect Arya’s profile carefully, the straight nose, the light alabaster skin, the sweep of lashes against her cheek when she blinks. Strangely, Sansa begins to smile a little.

“You know,” Sansa muses at last, almost out of nowhere, “You’re beginning to look a lot like Aunt Lyanna. Remember how Dad showed us those old photos?”

Arya glances over at her. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” says Sansa, and she’s actually wondering how she hadn’t seen it before: the slender face, the flinty eyes and thick dark hair. “He said she was homecoming queen in high school.”

“Fuck that,” says Arya, with a tiny grin.

“That’s what she said, too, according to Dad.” Sansa smiles, and Arya’s tenuous grin finally breaks into a real smile, as well. “Probably a little more eloquently, though.”

It is the first time since the fire that they’ve been at such ease around one another. Sansa sits there on the bed, missing every slope of her little brothers’ faces, the opposite sounds of their laughter and their thick Tully hair. For the first time she truly _allows_ herself to. The resulting ache in her heart is sweet and sad, and she's never been so glad to have Arya there with her. They sit on the bed, not touching, each submerged in their own grief. But it's a shared grief, this time, and that makes it somewhat easier to bear.

 

x.  

Though Sansa has found a fraction of peace within herself, this does not change the fact that she is still, essentially, hiding who she is from her own family. A part of her wonders how much her parents know. They know what happened in California, of course, and every time she reflects on this, a terrible unease burns hot in her stomach. It isn’t guilt; guilt is cold, and slow. This is shame.

And so when she invites Dany out to her birthday dinner, she does not introduce the other girl as her girlfriend. Dany agrees to this, to act as her friend, though Sansa can tell it doesn’t please her—a part of her wonders, anxiously, if the other girl’s patience is running out. A part of her wonders if she’s going to have to tell her parents the truth if she wants to keep Dany. Would she tell them everything, if the other girl asked it of her?

The question lingers in her mind all throughout dinner. She’d chosen the finest traditional Italian restaurant in town, yet Dany had gone ahead and ordered the strangest, most exotic food on the menu anyway. Now Sansa sits beside her at the table as the blonde girl regales the Starks with tales of her travels to Shanghai, to Ulan Bator and Ankara. Even Arya is impressed, and Robb spends nearly the entire meal looking as if he’s hiding a smile.

Somewhere between the entrée and dessert, Sansa feels Dany boldly take her hand under the table. At first Sansa’s heart pounds, and she feels dizzy, almost faint with nervousness. But she doesn’t pull away.

Dany glances over and those strange, almost-violet eyes light up with a happiness that makes something inside of Sansa brim over, full and sweet. And she knows in that instant that yes, she would tell her parents everything, if that’s what it took.

 

x.

Robb teases her about the whole thing afterwards, even when Jon smacks him on the back of the head and points out rather astutely that he might just be jealous.

“Jesus Christ, Jon,” says Robb, but he’s grinning. “That girl’s like, what? Sixteen?”

“Almost eighteen,” says Sansa. They’ve gathered in Jon’s kitchen again, cups of cheap coffee steaming before them on the table. It’s a blustery, grey sort of day, and both of her brothers are in high spirits. It’s almost infectious. Perhaps it would be, if Margaery hadn’t called her earlier and said that she needed to talk about Joffrey.

Robb shrugs. “I’m just saying that I like her accent.”

“Yeah, right,” Jon says, reaching into his refrigerator. He pulls out an apple and goes to the sink to wash it. “Anyway, don’t listen to him, Sansa. She does seem great.”

"You know," Robb says, a little more seriously now, "I really don't think that Mom and Dad would be upset with you if you—"

"I can't," Sansa says, cutting in, because for some reason she can't bear the thought of hearing him say the words. And then she rattles off a laundry list of all the reasons why she _can't_ tell them, though she doesn't even know how many of these reasons are legitimate and how many she's merely conjured up in her head. Halfheartedly she adds something about their religion, and at this Robb shakes his head, almost fiercely.

“Sans,” he says, “if there is a God, and he made you, then he _made_ you the way that you are.” He shrugs again. “Simple as that.” And Sansa loves him fiercely in that instant, because she knows that he has no patience for the concept of God anymore, that the idea of it is ridiculous to him, a moth to brush away. And yet here he sits with this strange tirelessness, reassuring her, treating her as if she is as much of an adult as he is. Jon leans up against his refrigerator, eating his apple and listening, and when Sansa’s gaze meets his, he gives her a wink.  

 

x.  

She celebrates her birthday with Margaery at a Thai restaurant and as they walk down the chilly leaf-dusted boulevards afterwards, their hands brush more than once. It is such a tiny thing, compared to their intimacy in the movie theatre, but it still makes something inside of Sansa flush white-hot.  

They have a little wine at Margaery’s house—just a little. They clink glasses and take careful sips, and Sansa knows they’re both remembering the last time they drank wine together. She tries very hard to not let her face go red.

Margaery’s parents are both away again, and they have the Tyrell estate to themselves. Loras is with Renly, Margaery tells her, sounding a little sad. At this, Sansa makes a comforting noise and impulsively offers to stay the night. Margaery smiles in response, though there is a wariness to it. She gazes down at her wine glass for a few moments, lashes fluttering against her golden-pale skin, and Sansa says nothing more on the subject.

Talk returns to Joffrey and Dany. Both subjects make Sansa squirm, though for different reasons. Margaery is still dating the former and remains distant from the latter, though Sansa doesn’t understand why. She’d thought that their fight would dissolve in a matter of days. But both girls are proud, and reluctant to let go of that pride, even in the name of friendship.

“But why’d you need to talk about him?” Sansa asks eventually, carefully, after Margaery reassures Sansa that Joffrey knows nothing of what Dany said to her. They are sitting on a couch in one of Margaery’s many living rooms, each facing the other with a wine glass in hand.

Margaery sighs a little. “I didn’t want to admit this to Dany at first,” she says, “But I need to get rid of him.”

Something flutters in Sansa’s chest. She ignores it.

“What made you realize that?” She asks, careful to keep her tone even.

“First, because Dany implied that he treated her badly, and I don’t care what we’re going through right now—she’s my best friend, you know?” Margaery waves a hand in the air. “I’m not going to date a guy who hurt my best friend.”

“So why haven’t you done it?”

Margaery’s face darkens. “That’s the other thing, Sansa. I know you haven’t been hanging out with Joff and me lately, and I don’t blame you. But…” She trails off. For the first time since Sansa has met her, Margaery looks decidedly unsure, and this makes a shudder of apprehension creep up Sansa’s spine.

“Margaery?” Sansa tilts her head a little. “What is it?”

“Look,” Margaery says, “I knew he was a jerk when I started dating him. And that sounds horrible. But I did. I knew.” She pauses. “Dany called him a monster, didn’t she? And I think she’s right. She can exaggerate things sometimes, and be super dramatic, but she’s _right_.”

Sansa feels herself frowning. “What did he do? Be honest. Please.”

“Mostly just little things,” says Margaery, with a shake of her head. “Weird comments, being aggressive around his friends.I knew he was a prick. But still.” She gazes down at her wine glass again. “I went over to his house the other day when he wasn’t expecting me, and I was let in by a maid. One of his friends was over—the really cute one, Jake. You remember him, right?” When Sansa nods, she continues.

“I heard them talking in one of the kitchens, and I was about to go in, but then I heard them mention Dany.” Now there's a tremor of anger in Margaery's voice; it's well-concealed, but Sansa hears it. “He’s going to do something to her, Sansa. And the worst part was—he was _laughing_.”

Dread blossoms in Sansa’s chest. “He already hurt her,” she says. “So… why? Why would he go after her again?”

“Because he can,” Margaery replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. And then she rubs at her eyes. “This became so _complicated_. I’m not scared of him, but I’m scared for Dany. I left her a voicemail, but she never called me back.”

“What can we do?” Sansa hates the tinge of helplessness in her voice.

“I’m going to think of something,” says Margaery, quietly, and there is a determined gleam in her eyes. “Don’t worry.” She smiles, a little. “And you need to talk to Dany and get her to listen, if she doesn't call me back by tomorrow.”

Sansa agrees to this, of course, and soon after the conversation drifts uneasily to other subjects. When talk turns to their classes, Sansa almost falters and confesses to Margaery about Baelish, but can’t bring herself to, despite remembering what the other girl had told her that very first day of school. _If he gives you trouble, come to me,_ she’d said, but Margaery is clearly still concerned about Joffrey, and Sansa doesn’t want to add to her list of worries.

 _I’ll tell her soon,_ Sansa thinks. _And she’ll know what to do. She always does._

Yet even this does not really settle the unease within her.

 

x.

Sansa does end up sleeping at the Tyrells’ after all. This time she remembers to call her parents, and does so at a decent hour. After receiving their permission she turns back to Margaery and the other girl smiles sweetly, that odd mixture of genuine innocence and blatant coyness that always makes Sansa’s knees go a little weak. It is a smile that reveals nothing, though, and Sansa chooses not to linger on that fact.

At half past three they wander up to Margaery’s bedroom and Sansa slips underneath the covers, dressed in a long t-shirt and pair of pajama pants that Margaery had offered her. For a while they both lay there in the quiet, saying nothing, but Margaery’s breathing hasn’t evened out yet and Sansa can tell that she’s still awake.

“It’s freezing,” Sansa mumbles, finally, and Margaery giggles into the dark.

“I love being warm,” Margaery whispers back, “Except when I sleep.” She turns towards Sansa in the bed. “Do you want another blanket?”

But Sansa demurs, not wanting to make the other girl go and retreive one for her. She’s positive that it’s never been quite _this_ cold in Margaery’s bedroom before, but is also too polite to complain again. Instead she pulls the sheets and blankets up around her chin and nestles herself into them.

She is on the verge of sleep when she senses Margaery move a little in the bed. The mattress shifts almost imperceptibly underneath the other girl’s small weight, and then suddenly Sansa feels an arm around her, and Margaery’s breath warm on her neck. The other girl curls into her, breathing so faintly that Sansa can’t tell if she’s awake or asleep.

It is such a wondrous feeling, to have Margaery nestled like that into the side of her, that Sansa resists sleep for a little while longer. She doesn’t know if Margaery meant to do it or if the other girl is simply dreaming. She ultimately says nothing, just remains there very still in the dark, with the sound of Margaery’s breathing soft as a kitten’s purr in her ear. When she at last begins to fade into a pleasant drowsiness once more, Sansa finds that she is no longer cold. Her limbs are instead suffused with a lovely weight.

_If only she wasn’t going to leave. I wish we had more time._

Margaery shifts and pulls Sansa closer in the darkness. _It’s almost like she heard my thoughts,_ Sansa thinks to herself, though of course she knows it isn’t true. But it makes something inside of her twinge pleasantly anyway, to think it.

She inhales deeply, and smells nothing but roses.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	20. revelations

x.

Monday dawns cold and clear, and Sansa awakens to the new day with Lady sprawled over half of her bed and hogging nearly all of the blankets. Shivering, she reaches over to her bedside table to check her phone.

It’s only a little past 6:30 AM, and yet she already has a barrage of text messages and missed calls. Unsurprisingly, other than a text from Alla, they’re all from Margaery and Dany.

The two girls apparently mended their friendship over the past weekend. Sansa spoke with Dany the night before and was reassured that, “It’s all fine now, Sansa. We always get into these stupid fights.” But that’s not what has Sansa worried, of course. It’s _Joffrey_ that concerns her, and whatever it is that he wants to do in order to get his revenge on Dany.

Yet one of Margaery’s texts is a request for the three of them to meet after school, and Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. _It’ll be fine,_ she tells herself. _You’ve gotten out of worse, haven’t you?_

But she’s never had to deal with Joffrey Baratheon, either. Sansa remembers the way he grabbed her arm, twisted the very bones beneath her skin in his uncompromising grasp. She remembers his blatant threat. _He’s just a teenage boy,_ she thinks. _He might be a Lannister—a Baratheon—but he’s just a teenage boy, isn’t he?_

She tries to ignore the fact that he frightens even Dany, the bold, silvery girl who Sansa has come to adore. Because the fact that someone can terrify the seemingly fearless Daenerys does make Sansa worried. She’d thought, until Dany’s nervous confession in the empty parking lot, that nothing in the world could frighten the other girl.

Sansa remembers what her father always told her. _You can only be brave when you’re afraid._

She clings to that now, as she slowly emerges from her bed into the chilly air and begins to dress in the semidarkness. _You can only be brave if you’re afraid. You can only be brave if you’re afraid._

Maybe if she tells it to herself enough, she will begin to believe it. Maybe she will begin to feel brave, too.

 

 

x.

Sansa finds Margaery sitting with Alla, Elinor, and Jeyne at their usual table before school begins, and slides silently in next to them. Margaery is assisting Elinor with her French homework, her forehead wrinkled a little in concentration, and Sansa can’t help but smile at her focused expression. _She’s so cute when she makes that face._ Sansa’s heart feels slightly swollen, fragile. She does her best to ignore it.

“Hey, wolf girl,” says Jeyne with a little smile. Margaery’s head snaps up; suddenly, Elinor’s French homework is all but forgotten.

“Thank _God_ you’re here,” says Margaery, winding a lock of autumnal-brown hair around one slender finger. “I need to talk to you about something. Talk a walk with me?”

“Class starts in ten minutes,” Sansa points out. She’s racked up quite a few tardies and missed too many classes already due to Margaery’s carefree attitude towards school attendance. Luckily, both girls are quite bright and maintain impressive grade point averages—but still. Sansa’s teachers are getting a little sick of it. _Especially Baelish,_ thinks Sansa uneasily.

“It won’t take long,” says Margaery, and smiles that clear, sure smile that always leaves Sansa a bit off-balance. “I _promise_.”

“Then let’s go,” says Sansa, finding herself in smiling in return. She can’t really help it.

Elinor makes an exasperated noise, clearly frustrated that she’s now going to have to master French grammar all by herself. Margaery ignores this with her usual blithe sweetness as she grabs her bag and hooks her arm around Sansa’s. They leave the cafeteria arm-in-arm, and Sansa notices as she always does how the crowds of girls seem to part as Margaery makes her way through them. _She really is the queen of this school,_ thinks Sansa. _And she’s chosen_ me.

Margaery’s shoulder is pressed against Sansa’s as they walk. “I’m going to break up with Joff this week,” she announces.

Sansa blinks. She hadn’t been expecting _that_. “Ah…” Suddenly, she’s wordless. She has absolutely no idea what to say.

“Yeah,” continues Margaery. “I like messing around with these meatheads, I guess, but he’s a total prick and he’s also planning on doing something to Dany, so…” She pauses. “And that’s why we’re meeting after school. You got my text, right?”

“Yes,” says Sansa, recovering from the shock of the other girl’s announcement. “But—weren’t you going to wait to break up with him, until after…”

“Until after we work out this Dany thing?” Margaery pauses, and Sansa turns to look at the other girl. Her profile is perfect—slightly tilted nose, a flower-like mouth, beautiful golden-pale skin. “No, I’m going to do it before. Then he’ll know for sure where my loyalty lies.”

“Is that a good idea?”

Margaery shrugs. “I think so, wolf girl. He has to know that you don’t screw with my best friend, _or_ a Tyrell.” She lifts her chin a little.

 _I wish I had her bravery,_ thinks Sansa. Yet she also thinks back to Dany’s words from the other week, as they’d sat in that parking lot submerged in their own small tragedies. _You don’t mess with the Lannisters,_ Dany had said. Sansa recognizes that Joffrey is not even what frightens Dany the most. It's the power his family has.

Yet she also has an odd, complete faith in Margaery—and in Dany, too.

As always, Sansa feels suspended between the two of them, this pair of best friends—the bold dragon girl with her silvery-gold hair and otherworldly beauty, the lovely Tyrell with her lazy soft curls and wry smile. Margaery is the best friend she’s made in this new town, and Dany is her _girlfriend_. She cares deeply about them both, for all that she hasn’t known them a terribly long amount of time, and the very last thing that she wants is for either of them to get hurt.

Yet she isn’t sure how to protect them, either. Not from the world, nor from the Lannisters.

 

 

x.

The three of them meet at a coffee shop nearby after school gets out for the day. Dany is already there when Sansa and Margaery arrive, dressed in her usual elegant black, the little beaded braids in her silvery-blonde hair clinking when they knock against each other. She greets Sansa with the briefest of kisses on the mouth—Sansa blushes, but doesn’t pull away as she would have in the past. She does feel Margaery’s eyes on her, though, and does her best to ignore the other girl’s gaze.

Dany simply orders a plain coffee—black—whereas Margaery opts for some complicated creamy drink that Sansa has never even heard of. Sansa finally settles on a vanilla latte and the three of them gather around a high table by the windows. The late afternoon sunlight shines in, golden and heavy; it is a beautiful day, and Sansa wishes she could be out enjoying it with Dany and Margaery. Instead, there’s Joffrey Baratheon to consider.

Dany chooses not to waste any time. She plays with the charm on her necklace as she says, “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“Ah…” Sansa glances at Margaery.

“Well.” Margaery considers both of them for a moment before continuing. “I told Dany all of it, Sansa. When we made up over the weekend.”

Sansa looks over at the blonde girl, yet there is not the faintest trace of fear on Dany’s face. Instead she is still, composed. It makes Sansa’s heart ache, a little; she slips her left hand into Dany’s and gives it a squeeze. “And?”

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Margaery continues. “I have a few half-formed ideas, I guess. But what I really want to know first… what I _need_ to know… is where all of this started.” Now she’s looking at Dany with all the intensity of a searchlight. “Why does he hate you so much?”

For a moment it looks as though Dany is going to remain silent about Joffrey, as she always has in the past. But then, something changes—her face grows harder, her expression firms. And something like a slow, old anger almost appears to burn beneath the surface of her skin. “When I first arrived in the States… right before I met you, Margaery, actually... I met this guy at a party I went to. Gorgeous, seemingly totally charming, kind of a jackass, from a powerful family. Joffrey Baratheon. And I just saw this spoiled, good-hearted rich kid, and I decided I wanted to _fix_ him.”

Margaery glances over at Sansa for a moment, but both girls remain silent as Dany continues.

“I was just this little girl at that point—not exactly the person I am today, I guess. And I totally fell for his act. By the time I realized it really was that—just an act—it was too late to get out safely.” Dany sighs. “We were never official, but he was so possessive. It didn’t take me long to realize that he only wanted me because of my looks. He’d always call me the prettiest girl in New Forest. As if I cared.”

Dany pauses and blinks her wide, almost-violet eyes. “He was violent with me a few times. When he hit me, he actually left bruises. And I’m not exactly that strong, physically.” She sounds bitter as she admits it. Sansa knows that Dany loathes any sort of perceived weakness within herself. “I found out from listening to his friends talk—he wanted to see what it would take to _break_ me. He’s seriously sick, not just your average teenage asshole.

“There was nothing I could do. At this point I was hiding the whole thing from everyone I knew—I was ashamed and afraid, and I thought I had nowhere to go. I didn’t even tell you, Margaery. I remember you seeing the bruises and being curious, though.” Dany pauses again, and takes a sip of her coffee. Her eyes have a distant gleam to them. “But finally it came to a breaking point. He threatened me and I said I’d had enough—that he could hit me, give me a black eye, whatever—but that nothing in the world could stop me from getting the hell out of his life forever. I knew I couldn’t go to the police, or to his school—the Lannisters run this town. And I don’t know if I would have even if I could; he made me ashamed about the whole situation. But I wasn’t going to put up with him anymore.” Dany tilts her head a little, as if deep in thought. “He didn’t hit me, or anything, when I said that. He actually let me go.”

Sansa’s heart is somewhere in her throat.

“He didn’t ‘break’ me,” finishes Dany, and there’s a clear anger on her face now. “Maybe he’s upset that he never got the chance. Maybe now he wants to try again.”

“Jesus,” Margaery breathes.

“So now you know why I tried to get you to break up with him,” says Dany to the Tyrell girl. “Why I tried again and again and again. I was afraid of telling you the truth, because I was afraid of _him_ , and his family. But in the end—you know. I decided my best friend’s well-being was more important than my fear. I knew he was still playing the charming jackass with you, but I was afraid that one day he’d turn on you, just like he turned on me.”

Sansa’s eyes are burning, and she wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around Dany and hold her still. But she doesn’t think the other girl’s pride would allow that, not at this moment, anyway. And so she does nothing at all.

“I’m going to take him down,” says Margaery into the silence, an uncharacteristically violent undertone threading every word. “I can’t believe he abused you, and hit you hard enough to bruise. Oh my God, Dany. I’m seriously going to ruin his life—just watch.” Sansa has never seen Margaery this upset; the other girl is still perfectly composed as she always is, but there is an edge to her now.

“There’s nothing we can do,” says Dany, and the cold anger in her voice reverberates within Sansa.

“We’ll think of something,” says Margaery. “We will. But first, I’m going to break up with this asshole. Sansa?”

Sansa finally finds her voice. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to go break up with Joffrey after we’re done here. Will you come with me?”

Sansa looks over at Dany, at the almost-concealed fragility in the other girl’s expression.  _You can help them both._ She glances back to Margaery.

“Yes,” she says. “Absolutely.”

And Sansa realizes that what she’s feeling is no longer fear. It’s anger.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	21. skirmish

x.

 

I’m really glad that you’re coming with me,” says Margaery, as they settle into her Audi outside of the coffee shop (Sansa had gaped a little when she’d first seen Margaery pull up in it; never in a million years would her own parents have given her such a car. But that’s just how the Tyrells are, as far as she knows.)

“So am I,” Sansa says, and she means it, especially as she looks over and sees Margaery staring at her with those elfin eyes and her mouth pursed a little, intent.

 _I don’t think anyone could ever get sick of looking at her._ The thought comes unbidden and it’s almost as if Margaery senses it, because suddenly her face flickers into that familiar smile, the one that makes the world tilt a little underneath Sansa’s feet. It warms Sansa from the crown of her head to the bottoms of her soles.

"I should totally be upset,” Margaery says carelessly, and she reaches over as she did that first day of school, brushing a lock of fallen hair out of Sansa’s eyes. “About breaking up with him, I mean.”

“N-no,” says Sansa. “He’s such a…” She pauses.

Margaery laughs. “You can say it. I’m done with him.” As always, her expressions are fluid; one moment she’s laughing and the next, her face is drawn and composed, serious. “I’d never have messed around with him in the first place, if I’d just…”

“I know,” Sansa says. And she does.

They pull out onto the street and drive in silence for a little while, the heavy golden sunlight warm on Sansa's skin. She watches the ivy-covered shops turn into manicured lawns stretched out before lovely old houses and then back again. New Forest is a pretty place, but it doesn't feel like home.

Margaery does, though.

Sansa turns to look at the other girl's profile: the flower-like mouth, the small curved nose, almost flawless but in truth all the more charming for its imperfections, the wide eyes that Margaery has trained to a state of perpetual innocence. She'd changed out of her uniform after school, and now she's wearing a dark blue blouse with a sailor's collar underneath a light jacket, a lacy white skirt that is just a little too short, and a pair of navy flats. Sansa's eyes begin to wander down the other girl's legs, but she catches herself sharply just as Margaery speaks into the silence.

"Oh my God," the brunette says, turning towards Sansa for a moment and fixing her briefly with those sunny eyes. "Do you know what Friday is?"

"Um—"

"It's _Halloween!_ " Margaery turns back towards the road. "I'd totally forgotten with all of this drama, but—crap. What are you doing for it?"

"Oh, uh... nothing?"

"Oh no you don't," Margaery says with a stern little frown. "I swear to God, you'd better not act like Loras. When we were younger, he was always trying to get out of celebrating Halloween with me."

Sansa feels herself beginning to smile. "I'd better ask Dany what she's doing."

Margaery sighs. “Dany doesn’t _do_ Halloween. She’s a Brit and too cool for it, apparently.”

"Oh." This makes Sansa a bit sadder than she'd like to admit. _Oh, well. You don't have to do everything together._

"Aww, wolf girl." Margaery's voice is low and sweet now. "You've still got me."

A familiar warmth gathers behind Sansa's ribs, settles somewhere near her heart. "I know I do.” She pauses for a moment. “So did you have any… costume ideas?”

Margaery glances towards her again and flashes with that glittering smile. "Trust me, Sans. I've got it all under control."

 

 

 

x.

 

“Are you nervous?”

They’re sitting at the end of Joffrey’s street in Margaery’s car, and Sansa is wringing her hands in her lap—a habit of childhood that she has never successsfully managed to leave behind. Margaery, on the other hand, is simply coiled up in the driver’s chair, her chin on her knees and a little smile on her face.

“And why are you _smiling?”_

“Because I’m with you,” Margaery says, simply.

Sansa feels herself flush, just slightly; she never knows quite how to react when Margaery says things like that, but she _does_ know nonetheless that it ignites a wonderful warmth in the pit of her stomach. What that warmth means, she can’t bear to look at directly for fear of being burned by it.

“Am I nervous?” Margaery has decided to ignore Sansa’s flustered silence with her usual blithe sweetness; this sort of behavior always tends to blind those around the Tyrell girl to her faults, Sansa has noticed. “Should I be?”

Sansa looks at her, incredulous; Margaery just grins in response.

“Margaery, come _on—“_

“I know, sorry—I’m teasing you.” The other girl’s expression hardens, turns solemn for a moment. “A little nervous, yeah.”

“You should be more than a little nervous,” Sansa says.

“I know,” says Margaery, seriously. “But I’m not.” Her voice is nearly as soft as a whisper.

Sansa studies the girl beside her in the car. _She’s almost fearless. And when she’s not fearless, she’s brave._

Sansa suddenly remembers a discussion she’d had with her father when she was younger. Sansa had been in eighth grade and at the time was nursing a powerful crush on a girl in her class at school. When February came around Sansa spent two hours crafting the perfect Valentine for her, but after she’d left it in the other girl’s locker, nothing was ever the same between them again. When Sansa realized that the other girl had decided to silently end their friendship, she cried and cried.

Ned had sat down with her and asked her what was wrong; Sansa had told him she liked a boy who no longer liked her.

And Ned had just put an arm around her, kissed her forehead, and told her that one day, when she was older, Sansa would find someone who was worthy of her. Someone brave and gentle and strong.

She looks at Margaery now, and something uncurls within her, slow and sweet.

_Someone brave and gentle and  strong._

x.

 

The Baratheon residence looms above them like a castle out of Sansa’s childhood dreams.

“Are you ready?”

Margaery reaches over and takes Sansa’s hand. She squeezes it. “I think so.”

Two minutes later a man that Sansa presumes to be a servant is leading them through the winding halls, and once again Sansa is swamped in the grandeur of the place, the impossible beauty of it. The ceilings are ornate, vaulted, and there is stone underfoot— _this really is a modern-day castle,_ Sansa thinks, _it really is like something from a story._

Joffrey is waiting alone, in a sitting room with low-hanging lamps and an immense stone fireplace. It is beautiful, just as the rest of the house is, but it also feels strangely cold. And when his lancing green eyes alight on her coolly, a little shiver resounds through Sansa, chilling her throughout her entire body and settling somewhere at the base of her spine.

“I need to talk to you,” Margaery says immediately, before he has a chance to say a word.

“Then what’s she doing here?” Joffrey’s gaze drifts to Sansa again, both lazy and cruel.

“Because I want her here,” says Margaery, and there’s something in her voice that Sansa has never heard before, an underlying coldness that is both fierce and firm. Yet her countenance never wavers; there is almost a little smile playing on her lips as she says it, and you’d never guess, Sansa thinks, how much she hates him.

“Look,” Joffrey says. “I have to be out of here in fifteen minutes, so make this quick.” _He’s either sensed that something isn’t right, or things haven’t been good between them for a while._ Sansa wonders which one is true; she also wonders why it matters so much to her.

Margaery and Sansa sit down side-by-side on the couch opposite Joffrey; Margaery’s back is straight, her posture erect, while Sansa feels a bit like wilting into the sofa. She doesn’t allow herself to.

“It’ll be quick,” says Margaery, almost sweetly. “There’s not much to say.”

“So?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

Sansa steels herself for his possible anger; there is none. He does the exact opposite of what she expects him to.

He laughs.

It isn’t a kind sound, and it instantly reminds Sansa of the laughter in her old school’s cafeteria, when they’d—

She bites down on her own lip to keep the memory at bay, and tastes blood.

Joffrey is still laughing a little when she looks back up. “Of course. And don’t bother lying, because I already know why.”

Margaery says nothing for a long moment, and then;

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s because you’re a dyke.” He practically spits the last word and though Margaery’s flinch is almost imperceptible, it’s there. Sansa sees it just as she feels a new anxiety wind itself within her chest, seeping through her like a poison. Suddenly, she can no longer meet Joffrey’s eyes.

“I don’t—“

“It’s Dany, isn’t it?” He’s frowning now, and leaning forward a little, intent. “She’s a total slut, she’ll sleep with any—“

“That’s the other reason I came,” Margaery says cuttingly, and now there is no coyness, no softness, to her tone at all. “If you do anything to her, I promise—I’ll make your life a living Hell.” She enunciates the last words with a razor-sharp precision.

Sansa is barely breathing.

“Seriously? You’re threatening _me_? Who the fuck do you think you are?” Joffrey is leaning forward even more now, a looming threat mere feet away.

Margaery lifts her chin as she gazes straight at him. “I’m a Tyrell.”

Joffrey’s expression is twisting into something ugly, frightening, as Margaery rises from the couch. “Come on,” she says to Sansa, extending her hand. A little unsteadily, Sansa seizes it, and together they walk from the room hand-in-hand. They leave nothing but silence behind them.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	22. radioactive

On Wednesday, Sansa finally invites Margaery over to her house for the first time.

Dany has already visited. The Stark family loves her: particularly Arya, who finds Dany endlessly impressive with the retinue of languages that she speaks, and all of the places in the world that she’s been. “I’m going to be like Dany when I grow up,” Arya had announced after the other girl left their house once. “I’m going to speak ten languages, and visit every continent—including Antarctica.”

She and Sansa were in the kitchen at the time, cleaning up after dinner. Sansa had smiled a little. “Ten? You’d better get started.”

“I know,” Arya said, groaning as she bent over to open up the dishwasher. “God, I’m almost kind of jealous.”

Sansa stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Of you, getting to date her.”

Sansa nearly dropped the towel she was holding. “ _Arya—“_

Her sister just stood back up and looked at her almost sadly. “Chill out. I won’t say anything to Mom or Dad.”

“Thank you. But how did you—“

“You’re just so—disgustingly _cute_ together,” Arya said, with a flourish of a dish rag. “It's sort of gross."

Sansa had to bite her lip to keep the goofy smile from her face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Margaery had promised to be over at six o’ clock, sharp, with their Halloween costumes in tow. She is almost true to her word—instead, the other girl shows up at ten minutes after, a little bit late as she nearly always is. Margaery can get away with habitual lateness, Sansa thinks. She’s charming enough.

Sansa finds her standing on the Stark house steps, two mysterious dark clothing bags in her arms. She is smiling. “Hey, wolf girl.”

“Hey, Margaery.” Sansa smiles back; it is an automatic response. She can’t help it.

“Your house is beautiful,” Margaery says as Sansa lets her in. Sansa’s home is, of course, nothing in comparison to the Tyrell estate, but the other girl seems impressed anyhow.

Sansa’s parents are out and Arya is with a friend, so they have the house to themselves—with the exception of the two dogs, who come rushing up to them as soon as Sansa lets Margaery in.

“Lady! Nymeria!” Sansa says sharply, but Margaery’s face is glowing at the sight of them. She puts down the bags and strokes back Nymeria’s fur a few times before turning to Lady.

“Oh my _God,”_ says Margaery, as she crouches down on the ground. “Is she—“

“Yeah,” Sansa says, smiling a little at her expression. “She’s actually part wolf.”

“Wow.” Margaery pauses. "I'm pretty sure keeping a wolf is illegal, but I promise I won't tell." She giggles as Nymeria licks her face. "Gorgeous dogs.”

They wander up to Sansa’s bedroom. As always, it is pale and cool and light-filled; Sansa wonders, anyway, what Margaery thinks of it. But the other girl doesn’t comment; instead she simply lays the twin bags down on the bed and turns to Sansa with her lips slightly pursed, as though on the edge of a clever little grin.

“Okay,” she says. “I think you’re going to like them. You’d better, anyway.”

Sansa has no idea what to expect. She hadn’t even thought that Margaery would be so enthusiastic about Halloween in the first place. _I wish Dany was celebrating with us._

Margaery unzips the bags slowly, as if for dramatic effect, and it makes Sansa laugh. Finally the other girl takes the costumes out of the bags and lays them across the bed. Sansa blinks.

“They’re cute,” she admits, “But what… are they?”

Margaery’s eyes grow even wider than usual. “You’ve got to be kidding me. C’mon.”

 _Am I supposed to recognize them?_ Sansa studies the two costumes for a moment. “Um… one of them is a jester, right?”

“It’s Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy! You know. They’re supervillains.” Margaery is standing across from Sansa in perfect seriousness, her hands on her hips and a little frown on her face. The expression is absurdly endearing.

“Supervillains?”

“From Batman, of course.” Margaery reaches over and winds a lock of Sansa’s hair around her finger. “And you’ll obviously be Poison Ivy. Because of your hair. It’ll be perfect.”

Sansa feels herself blush. “Since when do you know anything about comic book characters?”

“Ever since I grew up with older brothers,” says Margaery, drawing away again. “But come on—aren’t they adorable?”

Sansa has to admit that they are. “So mine is the green one?” She pauses. “It’s a little, um…”

“Sometimes I forget that you’re a good little Catholic girl,” says Margaery, not unkindly. “Just wear tights with it.”

She lifts her eyebrows; Sansa can almost see the glitter in her eyes. “I have this feeling. I’m pretty sure that this Halloween is going to be amazing.”

 _Probably,_ Sansa thinks, even as she feels a little twinge of guilt. _I’ll be with you._

 

* * *

 

 

Friday arrives and brings with it a promise of winter: endless gusts of bitter-cold wind. But the day is beautiful, anyhow; the sky is a brilliant robins’ egg blue, and though the air is cutting, it’s also clear and invigorating. Sansa feels oddly alive as she shuts her car door and hurries up Margaery’s front steps, almost as if something has been stirred inside of her.

It is four-thirty in the afternoon and Margaery’s parents are at work. But the huge house hardly feels empty, mostly because Sansa is greeted at the door by both Margaery and Dany, the former wearing an astonishing smile and the latter a cool little grin that grows wider when Sansa draws close enough for a kiss.

“Last chance to join us tonight, Dany,” Margaery says as she guides them through the house towards the kitchen. “You’d make an amazing Batgirl.”

“I can’t, anyway,” Dany says with a little sigh. “My brother’s got himself into trouble again. I have to go help smooth things over.”

“He’s _always_ having a crisis,” Margaery points out. “Maybe you should let him deal with it by himself this time.”

“No,” says Dany, almost a little fiercely. “He’s my brother. The only family I have.”

Sansa says nothing. By now she is familiar with Dany's protectiveness over Viserys, but a large part of her still doesn't agree with it. Sansa knows, for instance, how he treats her. Yet Dany is incorrigible; she'll defend him under almost any circumstance, and there's nothing Sansa can really do to stop it. And so bites her lip hard, and trains herself to silence.

They settle around little cups of espresso in the kitchen, antidotes to the blustery wind outside. Dany has the courage to say what the others don't.

"I know it's not going to stop him."

"Dany—" Margaery begins.

"No. It's not your fault," says Dany, running a hand through her silvery-blonde locks. "It's just the truth. If Joffrey wants to mess with me, he will." She frowns. "I'm not going to make it easy for him."

"We'll be waiting for him," says Sansa, unhelpfully. But it makes the blonde girl smile anyway.

"I'm lucky," says Dany then, "to have you two."

Something stirs again in Sansa, sweet and sad. She does not know what the feeling is but it rests somewhere inside of her rib cage with all the weight of a memory.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By eight o' clock, Sansa and Margaery are almost dressed and ready for Halloween. Almost.

"Where are we going again?" Sansa asks from the bathroom, tugging a pair of stubborn tights up her thighs.

"This girl Doreah's place," calls Margaery from the bedroom. There is a frustration in her voice that signals she's struggling in a similar fashion. "She's sort of exotic, and gorgeous. She goes to Providence."

Something twists inside Sansa at the other girl's use of _gorgeous_. She does her best to ignore it.

"Are you driving?" She calls back.

"We can sleep there," Margaery replies. "if we need to. How drunk are you planning on getting?"

Sansa feels herself flush. "I wasn't—"

"I know, I know," Margaery coos. "Good little Catholic girl. You done yet?"

She is, so Sansa swings open the bathroom door. Margaery is waiting on the other side, and at the sight of her Sansa gives an imperceptible little intake of breath. _She looks..._

Amazing? The skintight costume clings to her perfectly, highlighting every slender curve, and Margaery slides on the mask with a smile. "You look perfect."

"It's sort of..."

"It's great," says Margaery reassuringly. "Every guy there will be all over you."

 _I don't care about the guys,_  Sansa almost says, but doesn't. Instead she simply smiles. "Too bad. You're my date."

"Good girl," replies Margaery sweetly, though it makes something flutter in Sansa's stomach regardless. She reaches over to grab her bag. "Let's go—Alla and Elinor are already there."

Sansa feels a little unsettled, and she isn't sure whether it's from fear or anticipation.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Doreah lives on an expansive street just ten minutes away from Margaery, and there are already so many cars when they arrive that the two girls end up parking nearly a block and a half away. Sansa spends the walk up to the front steps worrying over her costume; she stops only when Margaery laughs at her neuroticism.

The house is dark and impressive, looming in the dim twilight like some dreamy monster. They pass a pair of girls drinking on the front steps, legs entwined; a boy wearing a zombie costume leaps out when they near the front step, causing Sansa to yelp and Margaery to roll her eyes in his direction. The front door opens into a vast, shadowy vestibule, and almost immediately Sansa and Margaery are accosted by Elinor and Alla.

“Oh my god,” says Alla, “You look amazing, whatever you are. A jester… thing?”

Margaery sighs. “Does no one know what my—”

“—Harley Quinn,” comes a low voice to Sansa’s left, and it’s then that the astonishing dark-haired girl steps into view and Sansa’s heart almost stops.

 _It can’t be,_ she thinks for one wild moment, _There’s no way—_

But it is; it has to be, because it’s all the same—that pointed chin, the dramatic cheekbones and heavy fall of dark golden-brown hair. The bronzed skin and dark eyes like brush strokes; the pretty pursed mouth, as if she were on the verge of laughing at some joke the rest of the world didn’t understand. It was the girl from California, the one who’d stolen Sansa’s breath along with all of her dreams.

The room reels. Sansa feels herself waver on her feet; she grips Margaery’s shoulder to steady herself, and the Tyrell girl turns to her with a confused expression that quickly morphs into concern. “Sansa? Are you—”

 _I’m not okay,_ Sansa thinks, _I’m not okay at all._ But the words die before they leave her lips, and her heart is thudding somewhere at the back of her throat. An animalistic terror has crept its way up her spine, along with a shudder of something hot and quick. Something almost like shame.

“Sansa? Sansa?” Margaery’s voice drifts to her as if from across a distance, and dimly Sansa is aware of Margaery finally tugging her away from the group, leading her across the vestibule. Sansa does not resist, though it seems to her that they almost float, as if the world has become a dream and that dream a nightmare. When Margaery maneuvers her by the shoulders and presses her down onto a long rosewood bench in a dim corner, Sansa becomes aware that she is trembling faintly.

“Sansa. Come on. What’s wrong? Is it…”

“I thought I knew her,” Sansa says. “I thought…”

They are alone in the little corner; even the sounds of the party have dimmed. The two girls sit for a moment, suspended in a near-perfect sphere of quiet, until Margeary speaks again.

“Tell me,” Margaery says. “Tell me what’s made you like this. Not for me. For you.”

“I… I haven’t told anyone. Not even Dany.” A pressure is building in Sansa’s chest. _She’ll hate me. She’ll see how weak and stupid I really am._

“Dany’s not here,” Margaery says, and there is a softness in those doe-like eyes. “But I am.”

“I can’t, “ says Sansa, helplessly, because even now the shame is a torrential downpour, the fear constricting cold and hard around her heart. "You'll hate me."

Margaery’s words are the gentlest things. “No one could ever hate you.”

Tears fill Sansa’s eyes; sometimes, kindness wounds more deeply than anger ever could. Can she do it, though? Can she admit aloud what she doesn’t even want to admit to herself? For a few more moments there is a heaviness between them, an almost-tangible weight.

“It was in California,” she murmurs at last, unable to meet Margaery’s eyes directly through the other girl’s mask and utterly grateful for the fact. “I’d just switched schools for the billionth time… I didn’t have any friends yet. Until these guys, the richest, the most popular… they befriended me. And then they introduced me to this girl.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “They were so popular my head spun. And their parents had given them everything. And this girl, oh my God—she was so beautiful, she looked just like, just like—”

“Doreah.”

“Yeah,” says Sansa, “Like Doreah. And then—well, to put a long story short… she pretended to fall in love with me, to mess with me. They all messed with me. It was a joke, a prank. But I didn’t know, and I really did fall in love with her.”

Margaery’s mouth is a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Was this the girl who…”

"Yes," says Sansa, "That's the one."

Silence, again. Sansa is unsure of whether or not to continue; Margaery is looking at her intently, her brow slightly furrowed, and she cannot read the other girl's expression. _I don't want her pity,_ Sansa thinks. _I just want her... her what? What do I want?_ She shudders away from this imperceptible longing and looks down at her hands. They are bone-white and twisted in her lap.

"No one could ever hate you," Margaery says again, softly.

"You'd never hurt someone like that if you didn't hate them," Sansa murmurs. She clenches her fists painfully tight. "You don't know what they did. What they made me..." Her voices fades into nothing.

"Sansa. Look at me."

Almost unwillingly Sansa draws her gaze back to Margaery's, shadowed as it is by the mask the other girl wears. "What?"

"Only the weak are cruel," Margaery says. Her expression is as serious as Sansa has ever seen it. "It's this fucked up world that makes people think maliciousness is strength. Whatever they did to you--it's not your fault. Do you understand?"

For a moment hazel eyes meet brown in perfect comprehension. For a moment Sansa almost believes her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After the talk with Margaery, something lightens in Sansa's chest--for the time being, anyway. And when a passing boy in a ridiculous zebra costume wanders up and offers her a smile and a beer, she returns the former and accepts the latter.

The party has come alive, and though a band is playing in the extensive basement Sansa and Margaery stay upstairs, twirling through techno songs and clutching half-empty red cups to their chests. Soon the beautiful girl who had so terrified Sansa joins them, and Sansa comes to find that there is nothing at all to fear. Doreah is sweet and genuine, if a little… forward.

“You make a perfect Poison Ivy,” she purrs after drawing close to Sansa, almost rolling the ‘r’ in perfect. It uncoils seductively from her tongue.

The other girl is a little drunk, Sansa knows, but she blushes anyway—not so much from the compliment itself but from the way in which Doreah says it. Other than the girl in California, and Dany, she still is unused to receiving such forward attention from members of the same sex. But it pleases her anyway, and, combined with the alcohol, sets fire to a heat low in her belly.

Doreah really is astonishing.

At one part Margaery darts off with Elinor and Alla to greet Jeyne and her boyfriend, leaving Doreah and Sansa alone in the loose, thrumming crowd. The stereo system that has been set up in the room is massive; it yearns towards the ceiling and is so loud that Sansa almost feels the music threading through her bones. She decides that she likes it.

Doreah is some harem girl, Sansa knows, or thinks—there’s little enough fabric to the costume and that makes it difficult to tell. _If I had a body like that, I’d walk around in almost nothing too,_ thinks Sansa, and it’s then that she realizes she is at least somewhat drunk. Her eyes are lingering on Doreah far too long: on the perfect swell of her breasts under the sheer blue fabric, and on the slim curve of her waist, the jut of her prominent hipbones.

When she looks back up at Doreah’s face, the other girl is smiling. “Come with me, Poison Ivy,” she says, beckoning with the hand not clasping a near-empty cup. “Come with me.”

Because she’s drunk and because she’s not thinking at all, Sansa follows.

Doreah leads her up a winding staircase and down a long hallway, and while Sansa is dimly aware that they’re headed to her bedroom, she is also drunk and emotionally a mess and physically—well, physically she can’t take her eyes off of the swaying form of the girl in front of her. _I’m not going to do anything stupid,_ she thinks, as if from a distance. _We’re just going to… talk._

Where sex is concerned, Dany has been moving at a very slow pace, and Sansa thinks that perhaps that the other girl is doing it for her. She knows that Dany isn’t a virgin, anymore than she is; and Sansa also knows perfectly well that she herself is not ready to have sex again. But right now she’s drunk and flushed and lovely, and Doreah’s eyes are warmer than a summer sun. _We’ll just talk. I just want to look at her._

The truth is that Sansa has spent the last few nights twisting in bed for want of someone to touch and hold; she can only take so many more kisses and gropes under clothes; she is hungry for _more_ , despite herself. And this is not the place to find it, she knows. _But it can’t hurt to look._

Doreah’s bedroom is all gold and red and lace; it is breathtaking. There is a canopied bed in the center of the room and immediately Doreah takes her hand and pulls her towards it, spinning her once, and they fall back on it, giggling. For a few moments they lay there, still, and then Sansa feels Doreah stroking the soft skin of her inner wrist.

“Can you help me? I need to change.”

“Oh.” Sansa swallows. “Um. Sure.”

“I know it’s ridiculous to have two costumes,” says Doreah with a grin, pulling herself back off the bed and moving towards the massive dark wardrobe in the far corner. “But I can’t help myself; I’m sort of dramatic.”

Sansa pulls herself up to a sitting position. “What do you need me to—”

“Come here,” says Doreah, her voice again almost a purr as she stands there watching Sansa from underneath sooty dark lashes. “I need you to untie the back of this.”

 Obediently Sansa crosses the room and walks to stand behind her. She is careful to keep a distance between them but then Doreah takes a step backwards and suddenly Sansa can smell all of her, a low, musky scent that must be some exotic perfume. Sansa’s hands go slowly to the ties at the back of the costume and then undo them with strangely clumsy fingers. Neither of them say a word; there is nothing to be heard but Doreah’s langourous breathing and Sansa’s slightly-nervous inhalations of breath.

Then the last tie is undone, and Doreah steps out of the costume like a snake shedding an unneeded skin. She turns back towards Sansa, and though she says nothing, Sansa’s mouth goes a little dry at the sight of her.

_Um…What do I… do?_

Doreah wasn’t wearing anything underneath the costume but a pair of tiny, clinging boyshorts. _Which is what you should have expected,_ Sansa thinks dully to herself, even as she fights to tear her glance away—the curve of the other girl’s waist is practically sublime, and her breasts are possibly the most perfect Sansa has ever seen. Not that she’s seen… many.

“Poison Ivy,” murmurs Doreah, standing there half-naked with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “You look way overdressed.” She drifts forward and before Sansa knows what is happening the other girl has her arms around her, her face is looming dangerously close, and then—

Doreah is _kissing_ her.

For half a heartbeat Sansa yields to the soft fullness of the other girl’s lips; Doreah tastes of cherry chapstick and champagne and something else, something sweet. And then she almost immediately pulls away as though she’s been shocked.

“I’m—sorry, oh, shit—” Sansa never swears. “I’m sorry, I have a girlfriend—”

Doreah just grins. The other girl is drunk, Sansa knows, but she hides it admirably well. Her intoxication only peeks through in her next words. “So would she want to join us? I’ve never done that before.”

Horribly, something flares in the pit of Sansa’s stomach at the thought of it, as preposterous as the proposition may be. She manages a feeble smile. “I—”

“It’s okay, Sansa.” Doreah’s grin hasn’t faltered, and she hasn’t made any move to get dressed, either. “I just thought I'd offer.”

Sansa can’t help it; she laughs, and then Doreah laughs, too, the sound high and clear and bell-like. Almost like Margaery’s. That eases the tension well enough, and then Sansa helps Doreah into her second costume without any fuss. The two return downstairs after that, though Sansa’s face is flushed beet-red, and Margaery watches her descend the stairs with a wryly-arched brow and an almost-threatening glance.

“Tell me you didn’t,” murmurs Margaery, grabbing Sansa almost roughly by the arm and dragging her away from the congealing crowd.

“I didn’t,” Sansa says, honestly. “Sorry. Shit. I’m so drunk.” She pauses. “She did kiss me.”

Margaery’s eyebrows form a stern little line. “If you cheated on my best friend—”

“No, I stopped her and told her I had a girlfriend,” says Sansa, almost tempted to laugh at the fierce look on Margaery’s face. “Come on, Margaery. You know I wouldn’t.”

Margaery’s face softens. “Yeah. You’re right.” Her expression brightens into a smile. “Want some jungle juice?”

“Isn’t that stuff super strong?”

Margaery shrugs. “I’ve only had two drinks. What about you?”

“One…two…um, I can’t really remember.”

“Oh, Sans. Okay. A half cup for you, then.”

Margaery drifts away with a shake of her head, and Sansa watches her go, that festering fondness that is almost always present a blossoming tenderness in her chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I want you._

Sansa sends the (admittedly totally drunken) text to Dany at ten forty-five, and receives a response just five minutes later.

_are you ok? is something wrong?_

Sansa bites her lip to keep from smiling absurdly. _no, I mean I WANT you. can you please come here? 2 doreah’s?_

When she finally receives a positive response ten minutes later, Sansa feels her heart fluttering in its cage of bones.

“Dany’s coming,” she tells Margaery, stuffing her phone down the front of her costume. This is only the fourth time in her life that she’s been drunk, and she is beginning to find that alcohol really does cast away any inhibitions. She feels light and lovely and wonderful; and now that Dany has promised to come, almost tingly with happiness.

“Really?” Margaery’s eyes widen. “She must really like you if she’s going to brave Halloween for you. But I bet—”

“—she won’t wear a costume,” Sansa finishes, and they laugh.

Yet they come to find that they are both quite wrong.

Dany arrives dressed in a black bodysuit that clings to her slender frame, and when she drifts through the room unobtrusively it’s almost like a scene from a bad teen movie—male heads whip around as she passes.

 _Sometimes I forget how beautiful she is._ And it’s true; as Dany draws nearer Sansa can make out the other girl’s full budding mouth, painted red; the wide almost-violet eyes that have been streaked with kohl; the long tumble of white-gold hair that falls almost to her lower back. Sansa draws close to kiss her, but Dany turns her head away with a fierce little expression and glares at Margaery. “I can’t believe I’m in this stupid costume,” she says. “It’s yours from last year—remember, Marg?”

“Catwoman,” says Margaery, with a rather catlike grin towards Sansa. Sansa actually giggles in response.

"My God," says Dany, turning towards Sansa with a fond little smile. "How drunk are you?"

"I'm really not--"

"She's pretty drunk, but not obliterated. Take care of her, will you? I have to go calm down Elinor, she's having some sort of personal crisis in the first floor bathroom."

Margaery stalks off with the air of a queen, and Sansa wraps her arms around Dany’s neck and pulls the other girl close. She kisses her for a very long time, and does not blush even when the catcalls begin. _I'm going to regret this,_ she thinks as if from afar,  _I was so afraid of people knowing--of people seeing--my friends could see... But right now, I don't care._ And it's as simple as that.

“You really did want me here,” says Dany with a breathless little laugh after they draw apart. Looking into her eyes makes something in Sansa’s chest tighten, not unpleasantly.

“Do you want a drink?”

“I’m already wearing this ridiculous costume—I may as well get pissed.”

Dany procures a cup of whiskey and coke and they return to the dance floor; for an hour or so they weave and move through the crowd until they are both hot and flushed and Dany, too, is slightly tipsy.

“This was the worst idea,” says the other girl fiercely, though she doesn’t really mean it; Sansa can tell. “This costume is _so_ hot—”

“Then take it off,” Sansa whispers imploringly against her ear, and they both start to giggle at the same time.

“You’re being awfully forward tonight, Sansa.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No, I like it.” Dany brushes away some hair that had fallen into Sansa’s face. “And I really am hot. Let’s get out of here.”

“Oh—there’s… something I need to tell you.” Sansa tries to think; it’s difficult, with the vodka clouding her brain. “Let’s go upstairs. There’s no one up there.”

She slips her hand into Dany’s and tugs her through the room and up the stairs. The upper story really is peaceful and quiet after the din of the party downstairs, and it only takes a few minutes to find an empty bedroom and shut the door firmly behind them. The room is pristine, like the rest of the house; it is all white and ivory, from the bedsheets to the wallpaper to the mirror frame in the corner.

Sansa slides off her flats and settles herself onto the bed. She pats the spot next to her and Dany joins her, sitting just across. Their knees brush, and Dany takes both of Sansa’s hands in hers, almost possessively. It makes Sansa smile a little.

“What did you need to tell me?”

“Oh…” Sansa bites her lip. “Um. You know Doreah?”

“Yeah—this is her house, right?”

“Yeah. Well.” Sansa chances to look into Dany’s eyes. “I was helping her change into her second costume, and she sort of… kissed me.”

Dany blinks. “She kissed you?”

“But I stopped her almost immediately,” Sansa continues, rather hastily, “And I told her that I had a girlfriend.”

“So is what they say about Providence true, then?” Dany’s expression is incredibly serious as she says it.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you all… _lesbians?_ ”

Sansa can’t help but laugh, but she’s also surprised. “Wait. You’re not upset?”

“If I wasn’t a bit pissed right now,” Dany says, “I’d march downstairs and tell her that you’re _mine_.” She is drawing closer, leaning forward. Their faces are breathlessly close now, hovering, and in the space between them there lingers the thing that Sansa has tried so hard to look away from. _I want her,_ Sansa thinks, except now there is no guilt looming over her shoulders, just a wonderful hot thrill that resounds in her very bones.

Their lips are almost brushing when Sansa whispers, begs, “ _Kiss me,_ ” and then Dany’s mouth is full on hers, her hand is sliding to Sansa’s neck, and almost immediately Sansa is parting her lips for the other girl’s tongue. Emboldened by the alcohol, she slides herself onto Dany’s lap and her right hand goes immediately to the zipper of the blonde’s bodysuit. At Dany’s slightly breathless “yes,” against her lips, Sansa hurries to unzip it underneath the weaving of their oddly savage kisses.

The zipper catches, and Sansa makes a little frustrated sound against Dany’s mouth.

“I hate this costume,” the blonde girl declares as she lays back on the bed, pulling at the zipper until it jerks free. Then she slinks out of it much like Doreah had slunk out of hers—and Sansa is still having a hard time accepting the fact that any of this is happening at all, because Dany is essentially perfect in her tiny black bra and underwear, and her mouth is hungry and red.

The world reels a little, as it did when Sansa first saw Doreah; the difference is that now it is a pleasant sensation, as if everything is slightly out of control and heated and yet flowing seamlessly along. As if everything is happening as it should. As if this was right, somehow.

“You need to take this off,” Dany declares, tugging at Sansa’s costume, her breath hot on the other girl’s ear lobe. “Now.”

“These—annoying--tights—” Sansa manages in between kisses, but Dany is patient, and eases her out of the costume effortlessly enough. The tights do present the most trouble but Sansa ends up managing just fine, and then in the end they are both panting and hot-faced and entwined on the huge ivory bed in just their underwear, Dany with a hand on Sansa’s cheek as she slowly draws back from a lingering kiss.

“You are so beautiful,” the blonde girl murmurs. “You really are.”

“So are you,” says Sansa, almost breathless. “So are you.” (It is so easy to forget God, to forget guilt, when she is with Dany, Sansa has found.)

And then she is twisting closer to the other girl on the bed, and Dany is shifting her weight and letting Sansa slip underneath her—and then Sansa feels the marvelous weight of the other girl on top of her, the sharpness of her hip bones and the contrasting softness of their entwined legs. Dany’s hair fans out like silk, all over Sansa’s neck, and their mouths meet again and they kiss until Sansa thinks her lips might bruise.

When at last Dany’s hand brushes between her legs, Sansa almost gasps at the sensation.

“You want it, right?” Dany whispers as she trails a line of hot kisses down her neck.

“Yes,” whispers Sansa as she clutches at Dany's silvery-blonde hair, “Oh, yes.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> #### Sansa and Margaery's Halloween costumes--I had no idea what they'd wear until I saw this.
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>   
> 


	23. prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most brutal chapter I've ever written for this fic, and I apologize in advance. (ノдヽ)

 

Their bodies twine on the great bed, the space between them swallowed up in the dark-heat and the distant sounds of the party now nothing but a murmur. The world has narrowed, folded in on itself, and there is only flushed skin and the silk of the other girl’s hair, and her mouth sweet on Sansa’s neck.

When Dany’s hand goes between her legs Sansa’s spine curves, her lips round and she almost croons. The other girl lifts her head, eyes half-lidded and oddly dark, and Sansa sees that her mouth is twisted into a self-satisfied little smirk. The dusky look on her face makes Sansa flush hot somewhere inside.

“Do you like that?” Dany’s voice is hard and Sansa yields to it immediately, sighing out her almost-breathless assent.

And then Dany’s hand drifts near that warm, tender place, trailing agonizing circles through filmy fabric, and her mouth finds Sansa’s just in time to stifle a moan. Their kisses go from slow and sweet to something almost savage; Dany’s weight pins her to the bed and the blonde girl rocks her hips once, pressing into Sansa more fully and igniting a simmering heat that blossoms in the pit of Sansa's belly.

The world really has faded into nothing around them now, Sansa acknowledges faintly; the only thing that remains is the heat of Dany’s mouth hard up against hers, the taste of the other girl’s tongue and the feeling of her fingers trailing teasingly up and down between Sansa’s legs.

“Oh.” Sansa elicits the same little noise over and over: _oh, oh, oh._

“You’re so cute,” Dany breathes into her, tone imperious even in this, and then she is finally moving the feeble fabric aside and brushing firmly against Sansa’s clit.

Before she can do anything more than gasp, Dany stifles her voice with a hard kiss and Sansa responds, whimpering a little into her slightly-opened mouth and drinking in the other girl’s sigh. Dany’s tongue dips into her, sweet and gentle, and then she sucks along Sansa’s lower lip even as her fingers skim that warm, tender place.

Sansa is boneless beneath the other girl’s ministrations and finds herself almost squirming as she aches— _aches_ —for something else, something more. She can't even remember the last time she felt so on fire. Could it have been with--

“Margaery?”

Sansa jerks her head up.

The room is dim, but not so dim that she can’t see the outline of Margaery perfectly, standing there as she is in the half-opened doorway. The silhouette of her figure is sinuous, slim and curved like an old-fashioned Coke bottle, and now that she’s finally taken off her mask Sansa can see the expression on her face, vivid and startling as a bruise.

“Ah—well—uh.” Apparently she wasn’t expecting to find them like this quite yet. "Well, you girls move fast, don't you?"

Sansa knows she should be absolutely mortified, that Margaery found her and Dany half-naked in bed together. Even now they are coiled, almost more like one person rather than two, legs entwined and Dany's silken hair a curtain over Sansa's arms. Sansa can feel the alcohol singing in her blood and underneath the surface of her skin, and something else stirring in her, too-- something that Sansa doesn't think she can bear to look at directly, for fear of being burned. For fear of being wrong.

She doesn't even realize that she's been holding her breath until Dany says, coolly enough, "Well, you've seen me like this before, Margaery." She begins to stroke Sansa's right forearm lazily, possessively, and Sansa resists the urge to duck her head down. She knows that her face must be terribly red.

And Margaery doesn't look away from them as Sansa undoubtedly would have, either; instead her eyes feel incredibly hot on Sansa's skin. Her gaze is curious, almost childlike--yet at the same time, not childlike in the least. _But that's what she's like,_ Sansa can't help but think, _that's why she's so... attractive._

"I have seen you like this." Margaery's lips are quirking into a smile now. She's more than a little drunk, Sansa knows, but her voice is perfectly clear. "We used to steal wine from my parents and play kissing games in our bras and underwear."

“We did.” Dany looks like she’s trying not to grin, as she pulls herself slowly back up into a sitting position on the bed with all the luxurious grace of a predatory cat. “And you really aren’t too bad of a kisser.”

Sansa wonders if the idea of Margaery and Dany kissing each other in only their underwear should make her feel jealous. It doesn’t, though. Instead there’s just a hot, traitorous uncoiling of something in her stomach that sets a low heat to her belly. _Why are you even thinking about—that?_

 _You have to be… good._ But it’s a little too late for that, she thinks. Something is unfurling between them now, but she isn't sure what, exactly, it is. Or what it could possibly mean.

“And you’re okay, I guess,” Margaery says, with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. She pulls herself up into a sitting position now, too, though shyly. Margaery hasn’t seen her like this since… since that night in the movie theater, when they’d…

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Dany replies, with a careless shrug of one slim shoulder. “But— what’s going on, Marg? You’re all right, yeah?”

Sansa thinks that Margaery has never looked more catlike than she does now, almost perfectly poised in the skintight bodysuit she wears, one hand resting lightly on the smooth curve of her hip. “I may or may not have had slightly too much jungle juice,” Margaery admits to them, but because she’s Margaery, there’s not even the slightest lack of composure in her demeanor. When the situation called for it, Margaery could be quite an elegant drunk.

“And I'm fine,” says Margaery, and Sansa thinks that if she’d been anyone else she would not have had been able to hear it—the slight catch in the other girl’s voice. “I’m about to head out, though. You two are… busy. Alla, Elinor, et al— they’ve already left.”

“You can’t,” Sansa says, feeling herself frown. “You’ve been drinking.”

Margaery says nothing for a long moment, just stands there in silence, looking strangely small as she does so. It is so unlike her to be left without something to say, to not even have the faintest trace of a smile on her lips, that something in Sansa goes still.

“Margaery…” Sansa isn’t sure what to say. _I never know what to say, to help her. She always helps me but I can never give her anything in return._ “Are you really okay?”

Margaery parts her lips as if to speak, but she doesn’t make a sound. Not at first, anyway. For a long moment she just looks at both of them, sitting side by side on the giant bed, her wide eyes unblinking in the dimness. And then;

“I don’t really like talking about my feelings.” Margaery bites her lip, careful composure all but gone now; it's a rare enough sight. Sansa has only seen it happen twice before. “You know that.”

“Yeah-- and I also know that you need to stop keeping everything inside.” Dany’s voice is stern, almost motherly.

Margaery, again, says nothing. Perhaps it's stubbornness; perhaps it's just grief, though for what Sansa doesn't know. Margaery had seemed fine just an hour ago. To Sansa she is rendered almost unrecognizable now by her silence, and just the sight of the other girl standing there makes something twinge in her chest, right over her heart. _She looks so... singular._ So lonely. So unlike Margaery.

“Come here,” Dany says finally, speaking the words so softly that even Sansa almost does not hear them.

But Margaery does.

She crosses the room and slides with an easy grace onto the bed, wedging herself into the slight space between the other two girls. Her fingertips skim Sansa’s bare thigh by accident and Sansa almost shivers at the contact, at the heat that threads itself into her skin from just the slightest pressure of Margaery’s fingers. She almost wishes that she had a blanket to curl in, to cover herself with, but the comforter is still drawn neatly over the bed. _I want to touch her, but should I?_ Sansa still doesn’t know what lines have been drawn between them, really. She doesn’t know if even a kiss on the cheek would be innocent now.

If it were anyone else but Dany and Margaery there with her, she’d feel horribly exposed, sitting half-naked on the bed like that. But—surprisingly—Sansa feels only a mild discomfort, an edginess and apprehension, as though there is a struggling bird with beating wings inside of her ribcage, fighting to get out.

Margaery’s hand drifts to hers, clasps it gently on the bed.

“I was just thinking about…” Margaery’s voice trails off. “I mean... I was just thinking how… I don’t want to leave Providence.” Her voice grows even softer. “I don’t want to leave you.”

She gives a little sigh; it sounds incredibly weary, to Sansa’s ears. “I have so many friends who mean nothing to me. You know? And I feel like I wear this mask… this mask that’s exactly what the world wants from me, because I’m a Tyrell, and we know how to show the world exactly what they want to see.” Her shoulders slump a little, roll forward. “And sometimes the mask gets heavy. It just gets heavy.”

Sansa doesn’t realize at first that she’s holding her breath again.

“But at least with you two… sometimes, I can take the mask off.” Margaery’s hand tightens around Sansa’s. “I don’t have to be perfect, _sweet_ Margaery. Most of the time, I like being her. I do. But sometimes I want to be someone else.”

She pauses. "Sometimes I feel like we should just get out of here while we can."

" _We_?" Dany's chin rests on her knees, and her face is somber. "What do you mean?"

"You know," Margaery says. "Get in my car and just drive. Drive until we hit the west coast, even. I know it's crazy but I'm a little drunk, and it sounds really good right now. Just the three of us. The ones who matter."

 _The ones who matter._ Something flutters inside of Sansa's stomach at the way she says the words.

"Do you really mean that? About packing up and leaving it all behind?" Dany's voice is intent.

"I don't know," Margaery muses. "I do know... I do know that I'm glad I have you two, or else... I'd be long gone already."

Sansa squeezes Margaery's hand and then, on impulse, leans in to quickly kiss her cheek. She thinks that she sees a blush on Margaery' face when she draws away, but she isn't sure. _Margaery never blushes._

Suddenly words seem insignificant, crude, and there are none that Sansa knows of which can ease the ache Margaery is now feeling. So the three of them sit in silence in the darkened room, the measured sounds of the other girls' breathing more calming to Sansa than a dozen forced reassurances. _You do have us,_ Sansa was saying within that silence, _you'll always have us.  
_

_Always_ doesn't seem like such a long time when thinking of Dany and Margaery. Sansa meets the blonde girl's eyes over Margaery's bowed head and smiles a little. Dany gives her the smallest smile back, full of a genuine warmth that makes her head feel light and dizzy.

 _No,_ she thinks, _forever isn't such a long time at all.  
_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The coming Wednesday dawns bright and clear, a beautiful November morning. But as Sansa drives to school and listens to Arya's endless stream of chatter in silence, she can feel nothing but a sick clinging unease; she has another meeting with Baelish after school, and she doesn't know how she'll be able to bear a full hour underneath the weight of his eyes.

"Hey. Sansa." Arya punctuates the words with a snap of her chewing gum.

"What?"

"You're practically driving in the other lane."

Sansa jerks at the wheel to correct them and the car swerves violently.

"What's up with you?" Arya asks. "Girl problems?"

"Oh, shut up, Arya."

"What! I'm being a supportive sister--I swear I wasn't being a dick. I wasn't."

Sansa gives her sister a quick glance; Arya's expression is the picture of innocence, though such a thing isn't necessarily saying much.

Still, Sansa feels herself softening to her anyway. "Sorry. No, it's not girl problems."

"Then what is it?" Arya blows an obnoxiously loud bubble.

"It's..." Sansa pauses. "It's nothing. Really."

They drive the rest of the way in silence, and when they finally reach Providence Arya is quick to dash out of the car--yet sticks her head back in anyway for one last word.

"Well, I hope _nothing_ isn't too serious. Or you could always tell _nothing_ that your kid sister has a friend who's big and strong enough to beat pretty much anyone up for her."

Sansa feels herself beginning to smile despite everything. "Are you saying that your boy toy Gendry would beat someone up for you? That's _so_ adorable."

The only response she receives is the car door slamming shut in her face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Why is it that you chose this book again, Sansa?" Her teacher is rifling through a stack of papers on his desk, but the nearness of him is still powerful enough; Sansa sits just to his right, on the spare chair. She's been in his office working for nearly an hour now; their time must be almost up, but she doesn't want to make the first move to stand. She knows Margaery must be waiting for her--they'd made plans earlier to grab dinner afterwards--but there isn't much, it seems, that she can do.

"Oh--um." Sansa clears her throat a little, glances down at the copy of _Lolita_ on her lap. "I just love what the author does with words. It's... incredible."

"It's also probably the most difficult book in the curriculum, at least for such a project as this," Baelish says, finally putting aside the stack of papers and turning to glance at her. "But you're just a real Nabokov enthusiast, aren't you?"

Sansa feels herself blush; it's hard not to, underneath his eyes. "I... guess so, Mr. Baelish. And--well." She pauses.

"Yes?"

"It's just that I think it's so interesting... for Nabokov to write the book from the point of view of the... the criminal. The... pedophile." She licks her lips, a little nervously. "And you end up feeling for him. You know he's done such awful things, but... he's still a human, not a monster."

"You must have a very tender heart, then," he notes idly, even as his eyes go straight to hers. "You don't view Humbert as a monster?"

Sansa's heart is pounding, and she doesn't know why. "I... I mean... He's done horrible things, I'm not saying that, um--"

Her teacher simply smiles a lazy smile. "It's all right, Sansa. It was just a question."

He isn't bad to look at, Sansa recognizes; her English teacher has a feline sort of attractiveness that's similar in a way to Margaery's. Nor is he old; he can't be too far past thirty, she guesses. But his attractiveness, his youth, do not set her at ease. Sansa has been fooled by such things before, and she will never forget the feeling of his hand, so terribly possessive on her bare skin.

"You're doing all right, after the other week? After our little run-in?"

Sansa freezes, remembers the harsh revealing lights on her skin, how she'd struggled back into her shirt with him watching coolly. The incident in the classroom was the thing she'd wanted to avoid speaking of the most. _Why did he have to bring it up now? Why?_

"I..." She licks her lips once more. "Yes, I'm fine. It was just... embarrassing." She looks straight at her teacher now, as if doing so will earn her innocence back. "It was a stupid thing to do. And... thank you, thank you for not reporting it. Really. You have no idea how grateful I am."

“Well...” Baelish seems to consider her for a moment, and then Sansa feels the trail of his fingertips along her jawline, eliciting a little shiver that starts at the very bottom of her spine and trembles throughout her entire body. He notices, and smiles. “Your cheeks were so flushed, and your eyes were so bright. You looked so innocent. I couldn’t in good conscience penalize you.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Who was the girl?” He is the picture of earnest curiosity now, sea grey eyes alit with something both entirely foreign and terribly familiar. “Your friend.”

For some reason, Sansa doesn’t lie. Perhaps she is too nervous to.

“My girlfriend.” She all but blurts it out.

“Ah.” Baelish seems to think about this for a moment, though the quirk of his smile never falters. “Pretty girl. Unusual eyes.” He pauses again. “She’s your little secret, isn’t she?” He leans in just a little and brushes his thumb over Sansa’s mouth, giving the words a deadly significance.

“I…” Sansa swallows. “Yes.” It’s true, after all.

“Are you good at keeping secrets, Sansa?”

“Yes,” she murmurs in reply. That’s true, as well.

“So am I,” he says softly, sounding a little amused, as he nearly always does. “Can I tell you a secret, then? Something you’ll have to keep to yourself, just as I kept yours.”

“Yes,” Sansa says, again. Her mouth as gone dry, and she has suddenly forgotten how to swallow.

But it's then that the door to his office swings open, revealing a flustered Margaery. "Hey, I'm sorry, Mr. Baelish, I should've knocked, but--"

Her teacher had stopped touching her the moment the door opened; Sansa isn't sure how much Margaery saw but now she sits in her chair burning hot with shame regardless. Shame, and relief; she isn't sure what would have happened if Margaery hadn't interrupted, and she feels breathless, on edge. Though on the edge of what, she doesn't know.

"Are you a student of mine?" Baelish's voice is low, oddly unreadable.

"Oh, no--I'm just Sansa's friend. I'm just here to pick her up; it's like ten minutes after four, so I figured you'd be done. I'm really sorry for barging in here like that. Terribly rude."

"We were just finishing up anyway," Baelish replies. "Sansa, you can go."

Sansa shoves her copy of Lolita into her bag, smoothes down her skirt carefully, and follows Margaery in perfect silence out of the office.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What was _that?"_

" _That,"_ Margaery replies as they walk down the abandoned halls, "Was your best friend making sure that Petyr Baelish wasn't sexually assaulting you in there or something. Am I like the _only_ girl in this school not blinded by his youthful good looks?"

Sansa wants to do nothing more than kiss Margaery in that moment. Instead, she says, "Nothing wrong was going on."

"He was sitting really close, and I couldn't see where his hands were." Margaery pauses in the long, dark hall. "Wait. You'd tell me if he ever did something like that, wouldn't you? If he ever... touched you?"

When Sansa speaks the lie, it's so effortless that it frightens her. "You know that I would."

 _She can't know,_ thinks Sansa with a little hot shudder of guilt. _I'm already just this helpless victim to her because of what she knows about California. I need to be more than that, somehow. I need to be her equal, and I can't stand the... thought of telling her. And... it's not like he hurt me.  
_

_He never even hurt me. And I know what it's like, to be hurt._

Margaery's light eyes are so blazing that Sansa can barely meet them. She looks over the other girl's shoulder instead. "Look... I'm starving, can we just go out to dinner? Dany's coming, right?"

"She should be," Margaery says, apparently allowing the topic to be dropped for now--a fact for which Sansa is incredibly grateful. "When I last talked to her, she was getting ready and then was going to drive over to the restaurant."

"Which restaurant?"

"Your favorite, wolf girl," says Margaery with a little smile. "Sushi."

"That sounds amazing," Sansa admits.

"Of course it does; it was my idea." Margaery winks, and then slips her hand boldly into Sansa's.

"Let's go, wolf. They've got an eel roll, a bowl of miso soup and a ginger salad with my name on it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dany isn't at the restaurant yet when they arrive, so they sit around a table for three and order a trio of Diet Cokes before starting to peruse the menu--a menu that they are both very familiar with by now, as Margaery and Sansa have come here at least three times in the past month alone.

 _She always knows how to get me to try new things,_ Sansa thinks, watching Margaery pore over the elaborate menu in the dimly-lit restaurant. _Really, all she has to do is smile, and I'll do whatever she asks._

She knows that there's a danger in that; she does. But she also knows that she wouldn't trade her friendship with Margaery for anything _,_ either. _  
_

They chatter easily, of everything and nothing at all; it is only when they've each drained their first glass of Diet Coke that they begin to grow bothered at Dany's lateness. "She's a half hour late," Margaery says, checking her phone. "And you know her. She's never really late. Five minutes, maybe. A half hour with no word? No way."

Sansa's throat tightens a little. "What are you saying?"

"Oh--I don't know. I mean, I just wish I knew where she is. She's not picking up her phone."

"Should I try her?"

"If you want to. But I don't think there's really any point; she's not picking up at all."

Two more Diet Cokes later, the slight irritation that Sansa once felt has been entirely replaced by a sense of deep unease. "Margaery, I think we should probably--"

"Wait--my phone's vibrating. Hang on." Margaery picks up her phone and speaks. "Hey--hey. Oh, Viserys. What's up?"

 _Why is Dany's brother calling Margaery? What's going on?_ Appetite gone, Sansa puts her spoon back into the miso soup bowl and just watches Margaery's face, always so vivid and startling. But now it looks strangely closed, shut-off, and the voice that leaves her lips is not exactly her own.

"T-thank you, Viserys. We'll come up there now. Thank you. Bye."

Margaery puts her phone back into her purse, when she looks back up her expression is wavering, feeble. "Get me out of here, please."

"What?"

"I can't talk about this here. Let's throw down thirty bucks and get out of here. Okay?" Her voice is trembling, as if she's trying not to cry, and a million awful thoughts, each more terrible than the last, are running through Sansa's mind, so she does as Margaery tells her. They duck back out into the chill air outside and then ensconce themselves within Margaery's Audi.

Sansa isn't sure if she wants the other girl to speak. Margaery's fingers are shaking on her lap, and her breathing is so uneven that it sounds ragged. But at the same time, she needs to know. She absolutely needs to know.

"Margaery... what is it?" She speaks in a voice gentler than a whisper.

"It's Dany," Margaery says, and turns to face Sansa fully now. "She's...shit. Shit. Shit. This was my fault. This was all my fault."

"Margaery? What happened? You have to tell me--what happened to Dany?"

"Car accident," Margaery says, and does her best to swallow down a rising sob. "Something wrong with the brakes. But you know as well as I do there was nothing wrong with her brakes. It was Joff. He promised he would hurt her, and he did--"

There are tears streaming down Margaery's open face now, and she is trembling. Sansa is almost too afraid to ask what she knows she must.

"But... Dany... she's okay?" Sansa wipes the back of her hand against her eyes, blurring her vision. "She's okay... right?"

"She... she knocked her head pretty bad... she got knocked out, and..." Margaery can't swallow down the sob that rises in her throat now. "She hasn't woken back up."

"...What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she never woke back up. She's in some kind of coma, I don't know. But...

Sansa, they couldn't wake her back up."

 

 

* * *

 

 


	24. absence

No presence can ever be felt so strongly as a lack.

It's almost unforgivable to Sansa that the earth is still turning. Dany is lying on a hospital bed somewhere with those vivid eyes shuttered closed, she knows—yet all around her there are people, moving, walking, blithe in their ignorance. How is it probable—possible, even—that the greater world could go on so undisturbed when Sansa’s has just fallen still?

And then she understands. _It’s not that people continue with their lives because giving up would matter,_ she thinks to herself with a hard, sudden clarity. _They go on because it wouldn’t._

Sansa feels insignificant in her silence as Margaery drives them both to the hospital. Shocking events have an odd cut to them, a serrated edge; at once one’s life is split into before and after, your past rearranged into rooms divided by memory and disbelief. She _would_ say something, if words could ease the frozen ache like an axe in their chests—

—but Sansa knows all too well that words can’t.

“There’s the hospital.” Margaery is tight-lipped; in the wake of the news about Dany, all of the unspoken strain, the unasked questions, have vanished between them. Only one thing really matters now, because tragedy shrinks the world down to its proper size. Sansa’s fluttering anxieties all feel so embarrassingly trivial.

 _Please,_ she thinks to herself with an acute pang of loss, realizing too late that she doesn’t know at all who she’s praying to, _please just let her wake up._

Darkness is beginning to pull away at the edges of the sky by the time they park in the structure. Above the beige concrete the sun is being swallowed down by the earth, and Margaery’s breath unspools warmly against her cheek as the other girl leans in to take Sansa’s hand.

It’s an act of comfort, almost absurdly sweet in its earnestness, and it makes the space between them go cold with a sudden rush of air. Practically since the first moment she saw Margaery and Dany together at that party—their long hair trembling down as they laughed, a curtain of autumn-and-gold—Sansa’s life here in New Forest was reshaped, changed.

She can’t imagine one of them without the other. Sansa stands there looking at Margaery in the parking structure, still startled into silence, eyes dried by a feeling of hazy unreality.

She can’t imagine either of them gone.

“Sansa.” Margaery’s warm hand squeezes hers, and she shivers. “Sansa. She’s going to wake up.”

 _How do you know? How are you always so sure?_ Bran and Rickon went to sleep one evening and never awoke; what if the same happened to Dany? It wasn’t that life was cruel, but that it was _indifferent_ —Sansa contemplates this fact and feels far and distant from everything, as if if she’s drowning in an ocean so deep that she can't swim to safety. The November air around them fills her lungs like saltwater, so cold that it stings.

Her voice sounds slightly rusty when she speaks. Above Margaery’s shoulder the sun flares with a last gleam of light, and Sansa stares into it, oddly blind. “Her life can’t just end like this. Right? It can’t?” She doesn’t really know why she does this—asks questions that no one can answer.

Margaery’s words seem to struggle now like water out of a tap. “No,” she says in response, and Sansa’s gaze finally goes to hers, and for a moment they’re both trapped by the weight of each other’s eyes. With the setting light behind her, it looks almost as if the other girl is wearing a crown.

“She’s going to be okay,” Margaery says softly, words so heavy with the burden of her promise, and Sansa only wishes it were easier to believe.

“She’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The hospital is too bright and too large and too clean, too sterile and frozen-white. Even the nurses’ smiles look trained.

Margaery just takes charge as she always does, steering them through a mazelike twist of corridors, the half-open doors and empty stretchers passing by as if in a dream. Sansa follows silently, mind clouded and far away. When they at last come to the room—219B—she pauses. Though Sansa wouldn’t be anywhere else, she also doesn’t want to go inside. Seeing Dany there will make it all real.

Margaery pauses as well; her hand goes limp in Sansa’s.

 _Be the strong one, for once._ She never feels strong in the shadows of Margaery and Dany, but now she has to be. “Like you said—it’s okay. It’s okay,” Sansa tells the other girl, and tugs her gently into the room.

There are two people, a man and a woman, by the side of the bed. Sansa has never seen them before, but she knows at once who they are: Dany’s adoptive parents.

The woman has a face like a brush stroke, pretty in its vagueness, and the man is dark-haired with stern features, his expression weakened by loss. They’re both well-dressed, attractive, slim in the same wiry way. And they both wear the same look of inexpressible pain.

Sansa’s eyes drift, almost out of their own accord, down to the bed.

_She looks so…_

Small, weak. Fragile.

So unlike Dany.

Something inside of Sansa clenches as she looks at her. Dany’s hair fans out like silk on the thin pillow, and her expression is ghostlike, almost empty. Her eyes are closed, not squeezed tight like a child’s but lightly, as if in death—Sansa has seen corpses with more expression. Her arms are at her sides, lifeless, bruises blossoming like flowers where the needles have pierced her skin. A thin tube snakes up each nostril and there’s an I.V. in her arm, but besides that the other girl looks merely as if she is sleeping… very, very deeply. So deeply, Sansa thinks to herself with a horrible squeezing feeling, that she’ll never be able to wake back up.

This isn’t Dany, but somehow it is. She feels Margaery’s hand twist so tight around her own that it aches. The bones of her fingers grind together and she stands there in silence.

_If Joffrey was behind this, I’ll…_

But she doesn’t finish the thought, because going after Joffrey, hurting him as he hurt Dany, won’t do a thing to bring her girlfriend back.

“Margaery.” The woman, Dany’s mother, speaks with a veneer of politeness that struggles under the strain of her grief. _How horrible,_ Sansa thinks, _to see your daughter like this. To not know if she’s ever going to…_

“And… you must be Sansa.”

 _She told them about me,_ Sansa realizes with a sick wrenching ache. _They know my name._ A very large part of her is suddenly guilty, ashamed.

_But I haven’t told my parents about her._

She doesn’t allow herself to think the words _and now it might be too late._

“Yeah,” she says, inconsequentially. “I’m Sansa. Hello.”

They exchange formalities and then Dany’s mother excuses herself to make a phone call. Her father sits down in the empty chair. “They said that it’s a fifty-fifty chance. They said…” But his voice trails off, and neither Sansa nor Margaery have any words to ease what he must be feeling.

In the spaces behind Sansa’s eyes rests the weight of all the tears she can’t cry. They pool, swelling, but for some reason she’s unable to give them life. Dany’s hand is cold in hers and she doesn’t stir.

Sansa expects those huge eyes to flicker open at any moment. They don’t.

It’s only when Margaery goes to the other side of the bed, takes Dany’s left hand in hers and starts speaking in the softest voice, that the ache in Sansa’s heart begins to overpower the one in her head. Margaery ducks down, squeezes her best friend’s hand, speaks to Dany as if she’s listening.

“They can hear,” she explains, gaze flickering back up to Sansa’s for a moment. She chews her lip, uncertain. “I read that somewhere once. You should always… talk to them.

“Dany,” she continues on in that same low voice, not speaking to Sansa now but to the sun-haired girl laying unresponsive on the bed. “Sansa and I are here.” She pauses, and something gives out in her voice, like a light flickering to darkness in a lonely room.

“We’re here,” she repeats softly, and there’s an aching tenderness to how she says it that Sansa has never heard before. “And… we’re not going to leave you.”

That’s when something caves in at last within Sansa’s chest and a few tears spill hot down her face.

“I promise,” Margaery murmurs. “And you know I don’t break my promises.”

The world is wet and blurred, and when Sansa blinks everything is thrown into a dizzy spiral of light.

 _This isn’t the end, though,_ she tells herself. _It can’t be._ It can't come to a halt here, in this cold room with its too-bright lights, Dany's skin so cold against hers. Lives end in hospitals, she knows, but not Dany's. 

The only response is the tick of the clock on the pale yellow wall, and the awful stillness of her girlfriend's hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They stay there, like that, for a long time.

The night is black and the sky starless when Sansa and Margaery leave the hospital at last. Sansa doesn’t want to go, not really—what if Dany wakes up while she’s gone, and no one’s there?—but it’s almost midnight and they have school tomorrow. A bone-weary exhaustion consumes her at the thought.

She has her parents’ permission to stay over at the Tyrells’. They never allow her do such a thing on schoolnights normally, but she’d had Arya tell them what happened—leaving out a crucial detail, of course.

 _I’m going to tell them,_ she thinks to herself as Margaery drives through the shielding darkness. _I have to._

Everything looks different now, as if there’s a veil between her and the rest of New Forest, and Sansa feels strange, too: tender, opened at the seams.

 _She’s only seventeen,_ Sansa thinks to herself again and again, as if the words in their ceaseless rhythm will soothe the ache. _She’s only seventeen. She deserves a life._

_She, of all people, deserves a life._

Sansa had seen the other girl just two days ago, and still has that memory imprinted on the back of her eyelids now—Dany, head tilted back as she laughed, eyes shaded by the curl of her  lashes and arm tight around Sansa’s waist. Then she'd leaned back in and they'd kissed, and Sansa had gone all soft under her hands.

How can one second, a single fleeting instant, change everything so irrevocably? How was it possible? Dany was untouchable, she was invulnerable, she was, essentially, all that Sansa had ever wanted to be—gilded in her bravery like sunlight, bold, skimming above the rest of the world with an easy grace.

She doesn’t know why it hurts so much: not just the knowledge of what has happened, but the knowledge that Dany is as frail, as human and as breakable, as anyone else. Sansa had never imagined that she’d come crashing down to earth.

In reality, a part of her still lives within stories, where endings have resolution and tragedy a purpose. In books, such things are easy—never a gunshot wound to the back of a head, or a seventeen-year-old girl slipping into a dream from which she might not awaken. Even the unhappiest tales have meaning.

_But as hard as I try, I can’t think of any reason for this._

Once at the Tyrells’, Margaery’s parents try in their way to comfort the two girls, but in the end wisely leave them to their own devices. Sansa and Margaery end up picking lifelessly at Thai food in the dimly-lit kitchen, still moving as if half-asleep.

“I’m so tired,” Sansa says, finally. “So tired I can’t even stand it.”

Margaery sighs and rubs at her eyes, making a sad restless sound as she does. Sansa can count the times she’s seen the other girl show weakness on one hand, and the sight of it is always unfamiliar to her. “Let’s go upstairs. I can’t eat anyway.”

They retreat to her bedroom in silence. Sansa undresses and puts on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that Margaery offers her, and then instead of curling up under the sheets goes to sit on the seat by the wide window.

“Sansa?” The other girl’s voice sounds almost—almost—timid. “Don’t you want to sleep?”

“I will,” she replies. “But not yet.”

The world still looks foreign, and suddenly she’s not tired.

 _One, two, three,_ she thinks, even as she sits there with her eyes thrown open like windows, staring up at the sky above. _Fall asleep so you can wake up. Close your eyes and dream._

 _When you wake back up, so will she._ Sansa forces her eyelids down, inhales a tiny trembling sound that she can’t stand for Margaery to hear. There are no noises coming from the bed behind her, as if the other girl has emptied herself of tears—yet Sansa knows all too well that the worst sort of pain is accompanied not by sobs, but by silence. And she knows Margaery hates to cry.

Her eyes flicker open once more and she restlessly searches the starless sky for the moon, for some hint of light. There is none, but she looks anyway. The blackness seems complete, even darker than it should be, as if the whole world has been engulfed in a glittering silence.

 _Somewhere it’s always morning, though._ Sansa almost wants to melt into the stillness of everything, but instead she leans against the pale wall and watches, how the trees are stirred faintly by the rush of wind and how the too-long grass in the garden bows beneath the weight of it.

_It’s always dawn somewhere, it’s always light somewhere._

Sansa’s hands curl in her lap, grasping at nothing. She breathes as slowly as she can. She’s never wanted the sight of the sun so badly, has never felt so alone in her life. And yet laying there besides Margaery would only worsen it, she knows—this isn’t the ache for another person but for rightness, for things to be as they should.

From far off there’s the howl of a dog, a wavering lonely sound that resonates in the hollow space between the two girls. Sansa lifts her hand and presses her palm to that solid pulse against her ribs, feels the ache beneath it like the beat of a slowing drum.

 _When you wake back up,_ _so will she._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	25. drowning

They spend more time at the hospital—after class, before class, on weekends. To Sansa, it seems as though time is always suspended just before turning into the doorway of Dany’ s hospital room, and that when Sansa sees her, she’ll be awake. 

It doesn’t happen, though. It never happens; and it’s wearing Sansa down, slowly but completely, an invisible erosion. A part of her is rock-hard, clasped in amber-- that part of her that cares for Dany more than she ever thought she'd allow herself to. She refuses to touch this hardness, this shield. Sansa is afraid that if she does, she'll shatter it into pieces, and that she'll shatter along with it.

No, no. She treads carefully now. Baby steps. She takes her coffee in the morning in the usual way (one sugar, one cream), drives to school with Arya's familiar chirping in her ear. She attends her classes faithfully (no more ice cream runs with Margaery),  avoids Baelish as best as she can, and laughs with pretty little Alla and Elinor and the rest. She is a shining example of girlhood, skirt pressed, blouse tucked in, with an easy, vacant smile.

She’s nothing if not stainless, a girl made too pretty for tragedy.

And yes, once she was stupid enough to believe that, too.

 

* * *

 

The world melts into a dream from which Sansa desperately yearns to wake.

School is an afterthought. Classes are fleeting, inconsequential; Sansa is at a loss as to why the world has not stopped turning. _But you should know better,_ she reminds herself. _When Bran and Rickon died, there was no fanfare, no hand of God, no shooting star. We were alone._

The old guilt rises up, familiar, acidic, despite all of Arya’s efforts to the contrary.

She’d read once that suffering is a baptism, a communion, a thrust upwards into purity.

She isn’t sure if she believes it.

She isn’t sure what she believes, anymore.

 

* * *

 

Sansa watches Margaery more carefully now: that bright-smiled girl, captured by Sansa’s old Polaroid camera in the falling half-light, turning the yellow glow in her hair to molten gold. Margaery, always laughing, always with a hand on shoulder or arm or wrist—and Sansa wonders (she can’t help but wonder) if Margaery’s touch lingers just a little longer on her own skin.

They ensconce themselves in a fortress of books in the library, first to devour thoroughly any medical text on comas and deaths and then just to hide from the outer world.

Their new world is aged, stained with yellow pages, and if this were another place and another time, Sansa would have loved it. She’d have loved it.

Not now, though. As far as Sansa is concerned, these books could fall to ash, the timber of the wood holding them up split and shudder. What good have fairytales every done her? What have fairytales ever done but blind her to the bitter truths of life, lie about the abiding and so-called eternal nature of love?

Now Sansa looks over to Margery, whose nose is deep in some thick old tome, her right hand half-curled on the smooth surface of the table.

Sansa itches to cover it with her own.

Instead she twists both hands in her lap. She lifts a book from the table, lunch forgotten, and reads until her eyes are sore, until after the bell beckoning them back to class stops ringing, until she can look at Margaery with something other than the wild, inconsolable hopelessness that fills her lungs and makes her weak and afraid.

Margaery just reads on, oblivious to the war occurring within the girl opposite to her.

 _Is that the problem, Margaery?_  She cannot help but wonder.

 _Are my feelings too wide, too ugly, too hopeless for someone so pure and beautiful?_ Her gut twists. It is an unpleasant thing to think about, but she is unable to fill her head with anything else.

In the end, she can't tell--Margaery just looks up and manages a tired smile that means nothing, says nothing, unravels nothing of the girl within her. 

This makes Sansa sadder than it should.

 

* * *

 

Alla and Elinor and Jeyne fuss over both of them, offering what little comfort they can, and though Sansa finds it sweet, she also feels strangely detached. Margaery finds it easier to be grateful, and laughs open-mouthed at Elinor’s silly, childish jokes.

But when they’re alone…

It’s as if there’s a ghost in the room, and they both know its name.

One day in the library, Sansa and Margaery sit side-by-side, Margaery waving at the girls who pass. Sansa has no such popularity, outside of her association with Margaery—she simply offers a quiet, tight smile that she is sure looks artificial.

As the library empties out around them, Sansa gathers the strength for a heavy question, one that she hopes Margaery will take seriously and not deflect with that glittering, impish smile.

“Margaery…” Her voice fades, wavering. And then:

“What do you think about God?”

 Something in Margaery’s face goes still, and relief floods Sansa, that Margaery is considering her question with all of the seriousness that it warrants.

“God?” Margaery murmurs, and then her gaze flies to meet Sansa’s, and Sansa is struck again by her wide brown eyes, the little flecks of gold that make them so piercing. And it’s true—Sansa feels struck through, lanced by light.

“Yeah,” she manages, a little breathless now. “What do you think about God?”

Margaery doesn’t hesitate. “What do I think about God?” Her face comes closer, hovering, and something awful and poisonous twines like a serpent around Sansa’s heart. She senses Margaery twirl a lock of auburn hair around one finger. “I think that God is in you, and that’s the closest I’ve ever gotten.”

Something squeezes tight in Sansa’s chest, so tight that for a moment she is wordless. Then she is leaning in, head pressing into Margaery’s shoulder and the other girl’s arms are going around her, hands stroking back the shining hair.

“I’m so sorry, Sans,” Margaery murmurs, softly.

“For what?”

“For wanting you to be lost, so that I can save you.”

Sansa has nothing to say to this—nothing, that is, that she can tell Margaery. She certainly can’t tell her the truth _. I wish I could adore the rest of the world the way I adore you. I wish you would open your heart the way you opened mine. And it was you that brought me here, so right now I’m your responsibility. Take me back now, please. I just really want to sleep again._

Instead she remains enfolded within Margaery’s arms, silent, heart poised to burst. It’s the kind of moment, she thinks, where words would only diminish its importance.

The kind of moment where you know that you’re sharing the exact same world as someone else.

 

* * *

 

Just before the three week anniversary of the accident, on a blustery Friday that hints at the true beginnings of winter, Margaery has a small party at her house.  Sansa thinks it’s more of a distraction than anything, and a poor one at that. She reflects on how when she’d first met Margaery, she foolishly hadn’t thought that the other girl, so popular, so effortless, would be capable of such depth of feeling. And this was not a mark against Margaery, but a mark against her beautiful, rose-scented world. Suffering begets suffering, and in Sansa’s foolish world, the beautiful did not suffer. And oh, then there was Margaery, wreathed in smiles, smelling of something both sweet and tender, a wry joke always on her lips—well, now Sansa understands that her smiles hide her pain just as a miser hides his gold.

No, Sansa now knows. There’s a pain that shadows every easy laugh. Margaery is nothing if not pristine, but there are shadows underneath her eyes that Sansa has never seen before, and her laughter is not as quick as it usually is, and Dany…. Margaery _misses_ her, Sansa acknowledges, misses her more than Sansa ever could tell. She feels a painful knot in the pit of her throat as she contemplates it. Margaery misses her like she’s lost a part of herself.

They both do.

At a little past eight o’ clock, an hour before the guests are due to arrive, Margaery and Sansa sit at the high kitchen table at the Tyrell estate. They both try their best to steer conversation elsewhere, but Dany and her tragedy has consumed them, swallowed them both down. Sansa no longer feels whole. Instead, she nearly feels as though she’s lost her brothers all over again.

Finally, Margaery says it—because Margaery is bolder, she’s always been bolder, and because she’s always been more foolish, too. “I was reading today. I didn’t… I didn’t tell you you what it said, Sansa. But it said that there’s not much hope left.”

Sansa had thought that she always knew how to be poised, mannered, careful. But at this news she buries her face in her hands and tries to swallow down every stinging sob.

“But it’s not fair,” she whispers at last, when her eyes have cleared just a little.

“Oh, Sans,” said Margaery softly. “Since when does life care about what is and isn’t fair?”

“I already…” Sansa is not sure if she is brave enough to say the words, or if they should remain locked up, safe in a place where no one could ever see them. But then, this was only Margaery, and Margaery seems to know Sansa better than Sansa knows herself. “I already lost my little brothers, Marg. I can’t lose her too. I can’t. Please. I can’t.”

 Margaery Tyrell is not a person easily put at a loss, she knows. But now Sansa’s face is before her—stricken bone-white, lower lip quivering, eyes swollen with an empty grief that leaves Sansa feeling paralyzed and scraped-out inside, as if someone is peeling her apart with a knife.

“Sans…” Margaery lifts her head, meets Sansa’s watery glance. “What happened?”

It was a tipping point, both know; Sansa had guarded her secrets from California as if they were the most precious jewels in existence, as if telling the truth would make her somehow unclean. _And there’s so much to tell,_ Sansa thinks, urging herself not to cry. Margaery never cried. Dany… Dany never cried, either.

_But maybe I can tell—a little. Just a little…_

“It was… it was me and Rickon and Bran at the house, and the babysitter. Around six the doorbell rang, and this girl… _that_ girl, the one I told you about, the one I fell in love with. She was standing there on the porch, in this beautiful short dress, and all I could think about was how much I loved her—God, the things she’d _done_ to me, and I still loved her.”

She pauses. “Can you love someone who hates you?”

Margaery lifts her chin, unwavering. “Sansa. Why would you ever stop loving someone just because they stopped loving you?”

Suddenly Sansa is very grateful that they are on opposite sides of the fine burnished table, because she wants nothing more than to kiss Margaery in that moment, taste the still-familiar rose-and-vanilla lip balm, fall into her arms as if she could have saved them both. Margaery is a refuge. She is strength: not the odious, powerful strength of men, but the sinuous, soft-spoken power of women, whose advantage comes from its tenderness and kind words. In battle, no one ever expects kindness from the opposing side.

“Anyway,” Sansa says slowly, trying very hard not to look at Margaery’s lips, “She said she wanted to say she was sorry. It’s a… it’s a long story. So we walked out to the river a mile or so behind the house, and she told me… she was sorry.”

“Did you believe it?” Margaery’s brow is creased in care.

“I don’t know,” Sansa murmurs. “All I know is that when we came back, the entire house was up in flames, burning like a bonfire.”

“Oh, Sansa,” Margaery whispers, suddenly intensely expressive. “It’s not your fault. Please, please let this go. You can’t carry this with you forever. It will kill you.”

Sansa shivers. “I remember when I met you, Margaery. You were always laughing and giggling and teasing. What happened?”

For a long moment, it doesn’t look as though she’ll respond. And then;

“This happened,” she whispers. “Dany happened. You happened.”

“Was it worth it?” Sansa isn’t sure she wants to know.

“I will never stop loving anyone because they stopped loving me,” Margaery says, and it’s so terribly _like_ her, so coolly-spoken yet so bitingly affectionate, that warmth floods Sansa’s chest and she’s afraid that she’ll start crying all over again. Thankfully, the doorbell rings just then, and the first of the guests appear.

It’s a fairly typical party, made mostly of Margaery’s crowd—Elinor, Alla, Jeyne, and six or seven other popular girls who Sansa is friendly with. It’s the boys she doesn’t know: ten or twelve, with matched severe haircuts, from the nearby boys’ school. They make her wary, and not for less than a dozen and one reasons, and so she stays away.

Instead she nurses a weak drink and moves amongst the girls, complimenting Elinor’s hair, Jeyne’s jacket, Marion’s skirt. It isn’t easy, to forget. But she tries; and she tries to make sense of why Dany means so much to her to begin with. She’s only known her a few months, after all; and yet that seems enough time to weave your lives irrevocably with someone else’s, to connect in ways that others would say were simply impossible.

But the reality is that Sansa feels that Dany and Margaery are the knights of every storybook she’s ever read; they are good and kind and brave, and Sansa, always so conscious of what space she occupies, feels like a ghost treading eternally in their shadow. She doesn’t mind. She pales in comparison to them, to Dany’s fiercely-held expressions and the dragon necklace glittering against her collarbone, to Margaery’s fall of autumnal hair and the way she refuses to give up, to give in, to anything she doesn’t believe.

“What’s up with you, Sans?” Elinor asks in passing, as Sansa stands by the counter nursing her drink.

It’s such a stupid question, and the other girl notices it about the same instant as Sansa does.

“I’m sorry,” Elinor says instantly, but it’s too late, too close. So Sansa simply smiles and moves away.

Margaery’s phone begins to ring repeatedly around ten o’ clock, but no one moves to answer it. Instead they gather around one of the sitting rooms, discussing classes and who dates who and a dozen other things that Sansa could not care less about if she tried. She wants _Dany;_ she wants to feel the other girl’s arms envelop her protectively like wings, for her to kiss her eyes closed and her mouth raw.

In the end, it all blurs together; soon people are leaving the party, taking empty whiskey bottles and crushed red cups with them, leaving the Tyrell estate an empty tomb. The hollowness threatens to swallow Margaery and Sansa whole. There is a space, an open space, where Dany should have been standing—the bridge between them, the light that Sansa had held cupped in her hands.

 _“You don’t need some knight to save you,”_ Dany had told Sansa, all those millions of years ago. _“You just need yourself.”_

_Then why do I feel so weak when I should feel so strong?_

“Hey,” she says suddenly, as Margaery bustles around the kitchen cleaning up the remnants of the party. “Your phone kept going off tonight.”

Margaery sighs, rubs her eyes. “I bet you twenty bucks it was my parents.”

They don’t make the bet, because both of them know that Margaery is right. She takes the phone into the next room to call them back. From where Sansa stands in the kitchen, the sounds are muffled, and she patiently waits by the counter for Margaery to return. But Margaery doesn’t return. The phone call stretches to ten minutes, to fifteen, and then a half hour—and Margaery’s voice is rising, growing both elated and shaky at once, and Sansa’s curiosity is a raging blaze.

Finally Margaery drifts back into the kitchen with a dazed look. “Sansa?”

“What is it?” Margaery crosses the room, takes Sansa’s hands in hers.

“Sansa,” she repeats. “Sansa.” She steps closer, so close that Sansa feels her heartbeat mirror Margaery’s, twin birds caught in a cage of unrest. Sansa is faintly aware of her hands growing warm, her pupils dilating, her eyes thrown open like windows.

“What?” For some reason, Sansa speaks it in a whisper.

“I can stay,” Margaery murmurs. “They said it—I can stay at the house next semester. I can stay. I don’t have to leave y—I don’t have to leave everyone. Loras is moving in with me.”

Something rises in Sansa’s chest: a sob, maybe, or a laugh. She isn’t sure, and so when at last the sound is released, it sounds like the call of some small anguished animal.

“I’ll still have you,” whispers Margaery, so close that Sansa can pick out the fan of her silky eyelashes, see the golden gleam of her vivid eyes. She smells of rosewater, and something low and sweet. “I need you with me. I never told you this, wolf girl… but.” She pauses. “Meeting you was like the first day of my life.”

And that’s it; they’re gone, both of them, spurred on by cheap whiskey and elation and guilt, Margaery’s lips meeting Sansa’s in a feral kiss. They kiss like they are starved; they kiss like they are criminals, stealing something that should never be taken. Shame floods Sansa in heat, but it isn’t enough to push Margaery away, to stop feeling the silk of her hair and the softness of her lips and the slender wisp of her body against Sansa’s.

“Here,” whispers Margaery against Sansa’s mouth. “I’ll be here with you.”

“But—Dany—“

“I tried, Sans,” Margaery says softly, and Sansa is shocked to see tears standing in her open eyes. Tears of shame, Sansa knows—tears of shame, and loss, and guilt. “I wanted to bury this, I wanted to bury you. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

“Because,” she continues, her voice oddly fragile as she moves in to kiss the other girl’s mouth once more. “You can’t… you can’t choose who you love. And...” She takes a great breath--as if preparing for a great dive, a leap from a plane. "... I love you."

And at this, at these simple words, it all comes crashing down.

Sansa suddenly feels hot, as if Margaery’s slender fingers are as blazing as a stove, and tries to catch her breath. But her head is spinning; her heart is aching; her chest is being squeezed by something darker than regret. How was it possible to feel so happy and so broken? How could you do something so cruel to someone who had never been cruel to you? But oh, Margaery—soft-handed and smelling of roses, hope shining like tears in her eyes, as vulnerable as a deer in the softening light. Margaery. _Margaery_.

Yet she wrenches herself away anyway, a wounded animal. “Margaery. We _can’t.”_

“I know,” Margaery says, voice tight. “But don’t deny that a part of you isn’t mine.”

Sansa stares at her for a moment, absurdly angry as she does. And then she simply says the first words that come to mind.

“But life is like that, Margaery,” she says, coldly, wholly blaming Margaery for her own lapse in judgment. For her own crime against the white-haired girl she adores. “Everyone loves the wrong person. Isn’t that how it goes? I think you told me something similar once, didn’t you?” Oh, she’s hurting her and she knows it, but Sansa is too ashamed, too pained by her own weakness, to care. Let Margaery hurt. Let her feel an ounce of the guilt that is flooding Sansa’s veins like poison.

 _She loves me,_ Sansa thinks, over and over and over, an unceasing repetition to ease some of the brilliant pain. _She loves me. She said she loves me. She_ loves _me._

Sansa had imagined this moment a million times in the past, but it had never been like this.

“Please,” Margaery whispers, a ghost of the girl Sansa had known just hours before. “I never meant to hurt her. You know I love her more than anything. But then you just… appeared. You appeared and never left.” She pauses painfully, and then;

“Please just let me know that not all of this was in vain.”

Sansa licks her dry lips, meets Margaery’s hollow eyes with her own. “I’m sorry,” she says at last, “that I can’t be who you want me to be.” Her voice sounds like glass shattering, like a heart breaking. “We can’t take back it back, Margaery.”

“And that’s why you’re so good,” Margaery murmurs, brushing at Sansa’s cheek. “That’s what separates you from me.”

“No,” Sansa says, firmly. “You and me—we’re the same. We’re the same awful thing.”

“What will we tell her?” Margaery’s eyes are filling with tears again, helpless. Sansa has never seen her so childlike, and recognizes in an instant that Margaery does feel terrible, beyond terrible, and that the pain is eating her alive from the inside. Sometimes Sansa forgets, how much Margaery loves Dany.

“I don’t know.” Guilt is settling in more fully now, and Sansa feels vaguely sick. Her girlfriend is in a coma, and she just—she just did something that she wishes she could take back, a million and one times over. What if Dany never woke up, and this was their farewell? What if Dany died, and this was Sansa’s last act towards a lover who had never been anything but honest, and good, and true?

Margaery is composing herself again, as she always does, and for a moment Sansa hates it. She hates how she can be so perfectly-mannered, apparently unbothered by what had just happened—altough Sansa knows she isn’t. Still, it grates, even as Margaery softly murmurs,

“It’s two A.M. We should really sleep.”

Sansa looks over at Margaery for a long moment. _I love you.  I love you._ That’s what she’d said. Why did the heart make things so terribly, crushingly complicated? Sansa is afraid to open her mouth to speak, because she’s afraid she’d say it, too.

 

* * *

 

They lay in Margaery’s bed, not touching, a curtain of moonlight falling through the half-open windows and both girls’ eyes open to the rise of night. Neither say a word. Neither make a sound. It is nearly winter, so the night is deathless, encompassing, Sansa’s favorite season. But now it just leaves her searingly empty, an echo of everything she’s lost.

She feels as though she is drowning in the sea of sheets, torn in so many directions that she can barely breathe. Drowning, waving, with no hand to reach her. Drowning in a sea that is depthless and black, and she is the only one for miles and miles. _Except for Margaery_ , she thinks. _Aside from her._

As much as Sansa hates what they did, she can still recall the touch of Margaery’s lips on her own like a sweet fire, the touch of her hand skimming her waist, brushing her open face. _I love you,_ she’d said. And Sansa can’t think about it, because if she will, she'll be weak, and that is not a luxury she can now afford.

She turns to look towards Margaery in the large bed. She is laying on her side, facing Sansa, her eyes closed painfully tight. She is not sleeping. Sansa knows this as strongly as she knows that fire burns and night turns to light.

And Sansa also knows at once, without a single falter, that there is no distance between their hearts.

 

 

 

  



	26. limerence

Sansa has always been constantly fascinated by friendship, especially the lengths to which it goes to punish her for things she never asked for.

She is laying in Margaery’s bed while the other girl showers, and her thoughts flee to the place she wishes the most that they would not go—a girl with dark honey-colored hair, a pack of well-dressed boys with smiles sharp as knives, an offer of drink after drink after drink… a video playing in the cafeteria, for the school and all the world to see.

 _She said she loved me too,_ Sansa remembers. _What if… what if Margaery…_

What did it matter? She was with Dany, and Margaery had slipped through her fingers like smoke.

Her thoughts stray back to California, to the beautiful girl who had taken her underneath her swan’s wing, who had kissed away Sansa’s aching tears, who had made the most beautiful promises and swore to keep none of them at all. When Sansa thinks of her now, she thinks of her as a ghost; it’s easier that way, easier than to imagine her as a girl of flesh and blood and bone. Ghosts haunt, Sansa knows, in anger and in silence. They never let you go. But Sansa is haunted by something else, too—haunted by all of the things she should have done.

Now she thinks of Dany, lifeless on the narrow bed, the veins of her eyelids the most perfect pale blue. Her hair, fanned out over the thin pillow—her hands, resting like dead things at her sides. And her face, that perfectly-angled face with its broad cheekbones and flower-like mouth; it didn’t look restful. Dany had looked…

She won’t let herself think it. If she doesn’t think it, it won’t come true.

Similarly, she doesn’t allow herself to think of what happened the night before. It is simply too big for her to grasp; when she tries, she fumbles with it and loses it entirely. _I love you. I love you._ The words had rung with all the certainty of truth, yet Sansa doesn’t know what to do with them. She is, for once, at a complete and utter loss.

Margaery comes out of the bathroom then, completely oblivious (or not) in only a towel wrapped around her, so short that Sansa can see almost the full length of her thighs. She quickly looks away. Sometimes she just doesn’t _understand_ Margaery; the other girl confessed her love to her the night before, had kissed her so fiercely Sansa had barely been able to breathe, and now was walking around her airy bedroom in nothing but a towel. It’s as if she’d forgotten about Dany entirely, and it makes Sansa bristle, for the most basic and obvious of reasons.

Margaery doesn’t seem to notice. “Sansa? Can you help me with my necklace?”

Sansa obediently rises from the bed and takes the necklace that Margaery offers her. With a little start, she realizes that it’s the crucifix she’d given her so long ago. And now she cannot help it—Margaery is always like this—she smiles broadly. “You wear it?”

“Under my clothes,” says Margaery, with a serious look in her golden-brown eyes. “Always.”

Sansa comes closer and notices the perfume that clings to Margaery’s skin, along with the water, which glitters in droplets like tiny clear jewels. Margaery turns around and lifts her hair, and Sansa sees her long white neck, so perfect that it could be a swan’s in human form. Sansa fumbles with the crucifix, and smiles a little despite herself as she does. “You’re still not big on God, are you?”

“No,” Margaery says, simply. “I don’t believe in God. But I believe in you.”

 _Why? Why now? Why are you telling me about all of these feelings_ now? _When I have so much to lose?_

She misses Dany terribly, with an acute, lacerating sort of pain: a part of her still can’t believe that it happened. A part of her falls asleep at night thinking that it’s all a dream and that when she’ll wake up, Dany will be there, kissing her lips over and over until they’re raw. Dany is too bold for this, too confident, too _good._

Sansa feels her lower lip start to tremble, and clasps the necklace as quickly as she can before she starts to cry.

“Sans?” Margaery’s voice is heavy with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I feel like someone cut out my heart with a knife,” Sansa all but blurts out. Well, she thinks, it _is_ the truth.

Margaery doesn’t say anything at first. Sansa knows she is remembering her confession, their kisses in the kitchen the night before. Sansa also knows what else she is thinking: _What about me? Why am I not enough?_

Yet Margaery also knows that Sansa is not hers; she _must_ know, because instead of putting an arm around Sansa, embracing her as she usually would have done, she simply puts a hand on the other girl’s shoulder.

“I promised you she’d wake up,” Margaery murmurs. “And I keep my promises.”

For a moment, Sansa loses herself utterly in Margaery’s words. And for that single, glittering moment, she believes her.

 

* * *

 

“Are you ever going to tell them?”

Sansa swivels on the cafeteria chair to face Margaery. They’re the only ones here; their teacher called in sick and now they’re left to themselves. No Alla, no Elinor, no Jeyne. Sansa thinks that maybe it’s better that way. What sort of friendship can she offer them now?

“Tell who… what?” Sansa asks, although she thinks she already knows.

“Your parents. That you’re—“

“—I’m not,” Sansa says quickly, too quickly. “I like both guys and girls. Seriously.”

Margaery’s face creases in something between concern and irritation. “Wolf girl, don’t lie to me. I can _always_ tell when you lie to me.”

“What about you?” Sansa asks, defensively. It’s stupid, and she knows it, but she says it regardless. Her tone is almost accusative. “Do _you_ only like girls?”

Margaery’s rosebud mouth twists a little. “You know I like boys too. But there’s nothing wrong with only liking girls, Sans.”

The other girl’s kindness softens her to Sansa; she finds herself relaxing a little. “I don’t… I don’t think about it much.”

“Maybe it would help them understand,” says Margaery, in all seriousness. “About why you’re so torn up over Dany.”

Sansa bites her lip. She knows Margaery is right; she’s also utterly grateful that the other girl hasn’t brought up what happened the past Friday night. There’s only so much she can take, especially now; she needs Margaery as a friend, and luckily it appears that Margaery is comfortable with taking that role again. At least for now.

“Do your parents know?” She asks.

“No,” says Margaery. “But I don’t have a girlfriend who’s in a coma.”

Sansa flinches away from it, a little; how can Margaery say it so easily? In her heart she knows Margaery is just being realistic, but Sansa, brought up on subtlety and manners, can’t help but feel herself harden against it. She doesn’t know why Margaery is grating on her today—didn’t Sansa get what she wanted, after all those long months? Margaery told her that she loved her. And yet, here they are. Nothing yet has changed. Perhaps Margaery is too stubborn, too proud, too well-bred. Sansa, for her part, is simply afraid.

And then there’s Dany. Fragile-boned, dressed all in black, little braids entwined in her long white-blonde hair. Fearless, bold, with the sharpness of a hawk. Everything Sansa wants and everything she wants to be. Is it possible for your heart to be in two places at one? She wonders. Because love doesn’t even know how it becomes itself, does it?

“How have Jon and Robb reacted?” asks Margaery, suddenly.

“They’ve been so sweet,” says Sansa, sadly. “Keeping everything a secret while trying to comfort me.” She sighs. “They feel like they can’t do enough.”

“And Arya?”

At this, Sansa smiles; she can’t help it. “She’s almost being kind of a… sweetheart.”

Margaery grins. “I always wanted a sister.”

But just as soon as she says it, she sobers again. “I’ll go with you, you know. I know it should be Dany, but… I’ll go with you when you tell them.”

Sansa inhales, a little sharply. She’s known in the back of her mind that she should tell her parents the truth, but actually doing it? Does she have the strength? Or, at the very least, will Margaery give it to her?

The look that the other girl gives her is serious, steady. _You can’t not,_ she is saying. Sansa recognizes it instantly, and knows it as firmly as she knows that night brings darkness and the sun is a star. Usually Sansa might bristle under such expectation, but in this case, she knows that Margaery is absolutely right. She has no choice, really.

“Tomorrow?” She asks, stomach already churning.

“After school, my wolf,” says Margaery, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from Sansa’s face. In that single moment, Sansa sees it again—the look Margaery had given her just before they’d kissed underneath the low kitchen lights. But then it’s gone again, and it’s just Margaery, composed, perfect Margaery—the golden girl who has never wanted for courage or resolve.

 _Perfect, perfect Margaery,_ Sansa thinks.

But what if being perfect is a flaw, too?

 

* * *

 

“You wanted to talk with us?” Catelyn Stark, impeccably dressed in a dress suit and heels, sits down with the air of a queen at her kitchen table. Ned sits beside her; the girls, across from them.

“Um… yeah,” Sansa says. “I did.”

“Is everything all right?” That’s her dad, always making sure that everything is okay. And Sansa can’t honestly answer either way.

“It’s about me,” says Sansa. Underneath the kitchen table, her fingers twine with Margaery’s, and out of the corner of her eye she sees the other girl nod encouragingly. “I just… I don’t know how to say it.”

“You can tell us anything, Sansa,” says Catelyn. Her expression is serious, composed. “You can tell us absolutely anything, and we won’t be angry. I promise you that.” Ned nods along with his wife, blunt features even more solemn than usual.

To her shame, Sansa feels tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. “Anything?” She reaches out as if yearning, places her free hand on the kitchen table. “Anything at all?”

“Yes,” her mother says. “I promise.”

“I…” Sansa swallows. “I….”

“It’s okay,” Margaery murmurs. “It’s okay.”

How can she tell them? How can you unlock a secret after carrying it for so very long? The way is long and the weight is heavy on her back; Sansa doesn’t know what it is to _not_ hide something. And the worst part, she thinks, is this: she would not be simply admitting it to her family. She would be admitting it to herself.

“It’s just… this whole time.. I thought that it’s not a lie if you only tell it to yourself,” she says softly. “I know it’s no one’s responsibility to….oh, Mom, Dad.” She inhales a knife-sharp breath. “I like girls. I’m… gay.”

And just like that. The weight in her chest vanishing, rising like smoke into the blurred-blue sky.

Catelyn does the strangest thing just then. She puts her hand over Sansa’s on the table and smiles. “We know, sweetheart.”

“You do?” Sansa sounds breathless, torn between embarrassment and relief.

“Yes,” Catelyn says, and Ned inclines his head as well. “We both knew.”

Sansa sits back in her chair, wordless.

“And Margaery, are you…?” Catelyn’s voice trails off, kindly.

“No,” says the other girl, with a little choked-up noise. “Not me.”

“Dany,” says Sansa, and the tears flood her eyes almost at once despite her efforts to hold them at bay. “It’s Dany.”

And then she can’t even hear what they’re saying; the tears come hot and fierce and quick, and she has no control over them at all. Distantly she feels Margaery’s arms go around her, and Sansa turns in the circle of them, pressing her face to the other girl’s shoulder. Margaery, despite her slightness, is solid, and so very present—something about her eases the pain where the words had wounded her, where the memory of Dany aches with every breath.

 

* * *

 

 

“I need to ask you something.”

They’re sitting on one of the long black benches outside of Providence’s gates, waiting for Elinor to come and pick them up so that they can go get Thai food. Sansa is sitting with her leg up next to Margaery’s; it’s the sort of cold, clear day that reminds you why you’re alive.

“What is it?” Margaery turns, and a curtain of autumnal brown hair falls over her shoulder as she does.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Margaery’s rosebud lips part; this was clearly not the question that she was expecting. And at once, Sansa sees her go on the defensive: bristle, lift her chin, eyes gleaming with all the unspoken questions that rest between them. “Sansa. That should be obvious. I told you—“

“—you told me that you loved me.” It’s almost miraculous, how easy it is to say. “But you know I’m with Dany. Even though—even though—“

“I couldn’t not.”

“I thought she was your best friend.” Sansa’s tone is accusatory, and she can’t help it. “How could you…”

“ _You_ kissed me back,” Margaery snaps, and Sansa almost flinches from the sharpness of it.

“Yes, but—“

“I didn’t see you complain,” continues Margaery, with the air of an animal walking wounded. “I didn’t hear you tell me to stop.”

Sansa knows it’s true, and it’s grinding into her, leaving nothing but marrow and bone. Yet all the  same, she refuses to let go. “I was practically drunk,” she says. “What did you expect? Did you _want_ me to stop?”

“It’s not my fault that you love me too,” Margaery says after a brief pause, and at this, all things settle into silence. Sansa doesn’t know what to say. She simply doesn’t know.

“You made a mistake the moment you decided to be my friend,” Margaery murmurs, not unkindly, but with enough fire to flare the spark between them. It is, after all, a thought that Sansa has had many times before. And so she stiffens on the bench, besides Margaery, and says nothing else. She can't affirm the truth, but she can't deny it, either.  _It's not my fault you love me too._

Oh, Margaery... russet-haired, honey-eyed, smelling of rosewater and something else, something low and cool. Margaery, with the proud lift of her chin and her golden smile, her sweet wide cheekbones like a cat's, her perfect flower-like mouth and dark fan of lashes against her ivory cheeks. Always so sure, so kind, wise beyond her years despite her incessant giggles and the way she shoves her shoulder up against Sansa's in the school's halls. Beautiful, something that Sansa wants to hold in her hand, something to cherish, something to hide away.

_It's not my fault that you love me too._

But what if it is, Margaery? What if it is?

 

* * *

 

 

Visiting hours are almost over when Sansa arrives at the hospital. Margaery didn’t come with her; there is a strange tension between them now, and so, for once, Sansa hadn’t invited her along.

Everything about the hospital is the same. Nothing ever changes; even the tissue boxes remain perfectly in place. When Sansa enters Dany’s room, she sees that her parents are not present. She drops her backpack by the side of the bed, drags a chair over from the corner, and takes up her solitary vigil.

There is nothing as frightening as beauty. Sansa surveys Dany upon the the bed, her eyes closed, her lips parted just slightly, as if they are about to be kissed. She looks thinner than she did before, but Sansa can’t be sure. She takes Dany’s hand in hers, marvels at the bird-like bones and clasps it gently, as if it might crush to nothing beneath her fingers.

“It’s weird,” Sansa says softly after a moment, speaking into silence, “How the people you need are never the people you think you’d need.” She recalls that party so long ago—Dany’s curtain of long golden-white hair, her open laughter, the way she’d kissed Margaery on the mouth. “I never thought… when I first saw you… you were too beautiful to be real.”

She swallows. “Whenever I come here, there are so many things I want to say. But my throat always swallows them before I can speak. I don’t know why.” Her voice grows softer. “I don’t know why.”

Sansa shifts a little in the chair. “It’s just funny, you know? Six billion people in the world and sometimes you only need one.” She pauses. “At least, it seemed funny before.”

She squeezes Dany’s hand, lightly. “I never told you this, but I used to feel lonely a lot. It’s like… it’s like being out in a forest without any people. And it’s impossible to go back… the road is swallowed up behind you with every step you take forward. And there’s no one out there… because who would be? Where there are no answers, no lights, barely any people. Where the only sound is all the unanswered questions piling up on top of each in your head, and they just keep coming.”

Sansa takes in a gentle breath. “But it’s like… you found me. I was in this black forest, and you found me.” She pauses. “No one else was even looking. And I just… I keep having this feeling like you fixed something inside of me. I just don’t know what you fixed. I don’t know what part of me was broken.

“I wish you could see yourself,” Sansa continues. “I wish you could see how you look to me. You’re like…. I know it’s stupid… like a princess from a story. You’re so, so lovely. And strong. And good.” She takes in a small, shuddering breath. “I wish I knew how I looked to you. Maybe I’ll never know.”

“Sansa..." There is a tiny, almost inaudible cough. "You've always been beautiful.”

Sansa’s head swings upwards.

Dany’s eyelids are fluttering open and then closed, and her breath is uneven, weak and shallow. Sansa feels her own eyes wide as moons. She is paralyzed; she can’t move. She can’t breathe. She simply cannot breathe.

“Dany?” One blink and the world is doused in blurry light.

“Sansa...” Dany closes her eyes and then opens them again, as if to clear her own foggy sight. Her hand twitches in Sansa’s.

“If I was a princess, then so were you.” Sansa can feel her tremble. "Then so were you."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  



	27. ache

Seeing Dany and Margaery hug one another underneath the skeleton of a dying tree makes Sansa's heart swell with something heavy and sweet, something that she can't name. Margaery’s golden smile is as wide as the sun, arms thrown around Dany’s slim shoulders and holding her tight, as if drowning. Dany is giggling so hard she’s trembling, her arms shaking with laughter, throwing back her golden-white hair over her shoulder. As men and boys pass, they stop and stare: the foxlike beauty with the long brown hair and the white-crowned girl embracing her, so beautiful they are, at times, impossible to ignore.

 _And they’re mine_ , Sansa thinks to herself, with an odd sense of—pride? Conceit? She’s not quite sure.

Dany and Margaery finally end their eon-long embrace and walk over to where Sansa stands by one of the hospital benches.

“Hey, wolf.” Dany kisses her full on the mouth—Sansa had missed this so much, too much—and strokes back her long, reddish hair. “My knight in shining armor.”

Sansa doesn’t blush easily anymore, but she finds herself blushing now. “I didn’t wake you up. You did that on your own.”

“No,” says Dany, a hint of ferocity in her voice. “You were telling me a story. About the black forest, and how I fixed you. And that’s exactly when I woke up.”

Sansa can feel Margaery’s eyes on her, warm but distant. They’ve reconciled, but there’s an uneasiness to their friendship now, an uncertainty that makes Sansa powerfully anxious. Still, now is not the time for that. There is plenty of time for that later, after the initial ecstacy subsides, when they’ve decided what to do about the night in the movie theatre, the kiss in the kitchen.

But it’s so hard to think of that now, faced with this beautiful star-faced girl who has chosen her, out of any of the boys or girls in the world. And maybe, just maybe, Dany was right.

Maybe Sansa was the knight for once, and Dany the princess locked away in the vine-twisted tower. Maybe Sansa was the savior for once, instead of the saved.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you really did it,” says Arya, sounding in awe of her older sister. “You really told them. You told them you’re gay.” She pauses. “So… when did you, like, admit to yourself?”

“Sometime when I was dating Dany,” says Sansa, and she shifts in the restaurant booth to put an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders, tug her closer. Dany doesn’t resist—just smiles across the table at Arya, an open, almost motherly expression that makes something inside of Sansa go warm and soft. It’s only been a few days since Dany got out of the hospital, and at times it still feels wholly unreal. At times, Sansa is afraid that this all is just a dream, and that she’ll wake up without her. That’s the way of the world, she’d always thought—given a branch in the road, fate will always choose the uglier, more painful path. But not this time.

This time, fate had been kind.

“She helped me,” Sansa says, still smiling around her glass of Diet Coke. “She helped me with a lot.”

“Your sister gives me way too much credit,” Dany says airily, lifting her chin in that regal way of hers. “She did it because she wanted to, deep down. Not because of me.”

“Do you feel any different?” Arya sucks noisily at her milkshake straw. Normally Sansa would rebuke her for making the irritating noise, but she’s still too full of light and warmth, just as she’s been ever since Dany came home. But how _does_ she feel any different? It’s hard to untangle the happiness from Dany’s awakening and the joy of feeling free, untethered, due to telling her parents the truth. Both things sometimes seem too wonderful to be real. So yes, she does feel different, but in what way, she can’t precisely say.

She does know, however, the word she would use to describe her newfound entanglement of emotion: free. She is no longer bound by chains, tethered to the raw earth. She doesn’t feel weighed down. She doesn’t feel heavy. She feels light on her feet, and the tension in her chest has all but vanished, leaving unfurling wings in its wake.

 _How did I get so lucky?_ She wonders as she sips her Diet Coke. _To have a family like this, and a girlfriend like her, and a friend like…_

Here, her thoughts drift. She and Margaery have not spoken outside of school in days, and when Sansa considers it her stomach feels hot and queasy. She’s lying to Dany—not just about the kiss up against the kitchen counter, but the time that she and Margaery had sex in the Tyrells’ movie theater. They hadn’t been dating then, but still…

 _My lies are the last thing she deserves,_ Sansa thinks, a sticky disgust with herself clinging to her throat and making it hard to speak. _And hiding those things from her is lying. It is._

But without Margaery, she feels immobilized. Speared by uncertainty. She isn’t sure which path to take—and she also isn’t sure how Dany will react to any of this. Her hand tightens around her glass. She needs to be on friendly terms with Margaery again, or this will never be solved. But Margaery has her pride, and Sansa has her fears. The thought of losing either of them ever again chokes her with a vibrant fear.

“I do… I do feel different, I guess,” Sansa says at last. “I feel lighter. I feel… happier.” The comment about being happier is only half a lie.

“Wolf girl.” Sansa can hear Dany smile, and then kisses her cheek. “I told you that you could be brave.”

“Enough about me,” Sansa says, blushing underneath Dany’s warmth. She’s become better about not blushing, but with Dany… “How’s the boy toy, Arya?”

Her sister rolls her eyes. “You act like I have a harem.”

“Do you?”

Arya’s lips curve up, just a little. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Right. So, how’s Gendry?”

“Spectacular. Though sometimes I think he likes Lady and Nymeria more than me.”

“Well, so do I,” Sansa says sweetly, and Dany laughs her bell-like laugh.

Arya just rolls her eyes again. “Ready to get out of here? I’m stuffed.”

The two other girls murmur their assent and have the waiter split the bill. Once outside, they wander. It’s an open-roofed shopping mall, with mid- to –high end stores scattered over flattened stones, and it really is too cold of a day to be shopping. Yet everywhere people bustle, into Valentino and Alexander McQueen, Prada and Chanel. But there are less expensive stores, too, and Sansa stops to pause longingly at a dress in J. Crew’s window.

“It’s gorgeous,” she moans.

“You sound like you’re dying.” Arya pauses.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes,” says Sansa, “We have to.”

The store is crowded, filled to the brim with harried Christmas shoppers. The holiday is in less than two weeks, after all. Sansa always gets her shopping done early, and this year was no exception—she simply took more time than usual to select gifts for Margaery and Dany. She wanted it to be special. She wanted them to mean something. But right now, all she really wants is that adorable little dress in the window.

“Dark navy, a-line, looks like it’s made of cotton.” Sansa stands there gushing over it while Dany laughs and Arya sighs. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s also $150,” Arya points out.

“I can charge it,” Sansa says. “Do you think they have it in a size two?”

“Is that a cotton-polyester blend?” Comes a familiar, terrible drawl. “Thought you had better taste than that, Stark.”

Sansa turns at the sound, and looks right into the face of Joffrey Baratheon.

He is cruelly beautiful, and beautifully dressed, as is the girl who stands holding his arm. She looks both frail and toned, somehow, like a dancer, a ballerina. Her expression is stern but neutral; Joffrey’s is in a vile sneer. Sansa can feel Dany freeze beside her, all the expression draining out of her in an instant. Sansa’s first instinct is to step in front of Dany, to shield her from the boy who’s caused her such impossible pain. But Dany would take that as Sansa sensing her weakness, and would resent the gesture. So Sansa says nothing at first, just holds on to Dany so fiercely she could feel the bones of her hand grinding in on one another.

“J. Crew?” Sansa wrinkles her nose. “Shouldn’t you be in Brooks Brothers or Burberry or something?” There is a bite to her words as sharp as a knife’s edge.

“Ariana likes their cashmere.” Joffrey shrugs. “What are you doing here? Could you even afford that dress in the window?”

Here Sansa blushes: for she couldn’t. Her parents were never exorbitant with spending money.

“You might actually want to hit up Burberry next,” says Dany now, her voice perfectly cool. “Their colognes are perfect for chavs like you.”

Chav: a British term that Sansa doesn’t know, but doesn’t sound good. Arya must know what it means, because she laughs. “Why don’t you fuck off, Joffrey? No one wants you here.” She pauses. “Not even your girlfriend, probably. How much did you pay her to be seen in public with you?”

Sansa’s mouth hangs open. It hangs open for so long that Joffrey and his girlfriend are long gone by the time that she can say anything again.

“Arya—“

“He’s such a prick,” says her sister dismissively. “Don’t say he didn’t deserve it.”

But that isn’t what frightens Sansa. She and Margaery had spoken about this, shortly after the accident; it seemed likely, both then and now, that Joffrey had been the one that cut the brakes on Dany’s car. How much could they risk? What would it take for him to do something again? And what could they _do?_

Dany’s eyes are blazing. “I’m going to ruin him,” she says, in that deceptively lyrical voice, “And when I’m done with him, he won’t even know his own name.”

Sansa stares at her, startled. There is a hardness on Dany’s voice that she has never seen before. She has seen her girlfriend angry, and irritated, and sad—but nothing like this cold and empty fury, chiseling her face into a beautiful sculpture of wrath.

“I’ll help you,” she says, and at once Dany’s face softens, and she leans over and gives Sansa a kiss.

“I’m so lucky to you have you,” she murmured, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

But Sansa’s memory is back in the darkness of the movie theatre, the dimness of the kitchen, and all she can think is: Really? Are you really lucky to have me, Dany? Or will I just be another disappointment, another hardship, in an already difficult life? The thought makes her feel almost sick to her stomach, lightheaded; the last thing she wants is to cause Dany more pain than she’s already had in her life. Sansa suddenly has trouble swallowing at the thought.

“Hey, Sans,” comes Arya’s voice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sansa lies, because she’s become so good at lying—so very, very good.

 

* * *

 

A week later, just before Christmas, the three of them gather at the Tyrell estate. Margaery had contemplated a larger party, she told them—but in the end she just wanted it to be the three of them, Renly, and Loras. Sansa had been surprised—Margaery adored large gatherings, huge parties—but she is secretly pleased that it would just be the five of them.

Dany and Sansa are the last to arrive, holding hands on the enormous steps of the front entrance of the Tyrell estate. A few moments later, and the doors swing open—and Sansa loses her breath.

Margaery looks stunning. She’s wearing a short, red dress with a small slit in the front and a very long one in the back, revealing her beautiful ivory skin. She has just the perfect amount of makeup on: a smudge of eyeliner with golden-brown eyeshadow, a hint of blush, a clear lip gloss. Her hair cascades, straight this time, down to her middle-back. She looks like something off of a runway, and for a moment Sansa can’t even talk.

“Holy shit,” says Dany, breaking Sansa’s reverie. “Could you get any more perfect?”

“Not as perfect as you,” retorts Margaery sweetly, and opens her arms for Dany to enter them.

She does, and they hug for a long time, giggling about something Dany murmurs in Margaery’s ear. In truth, Dany is lovely, as well—in her signature black (of course), she wears a frilly, short dress with ankle boots. Sansa has always loved how she mixes and matches her fashion—and wishes she had the confidence to do the same. For her part, Sansa is in a simple white shift dress that lights up her hair like fire, and she is freezing outside on the steps. When she mentions it aloud, Margaery apologizes immediately (always faultlessly mannered) and and invites them inside.

The house is beautifully decorated for the season, and Margaery leads them to a dimly-lit sitting room where Loras and Renly are already present. There are decanters of alcohol resting upon a beautiful wooden table, and Loras politely rises at once and asks Dany and Sansa what they’d like to drink.

“Whiskey,” says Dany immediately. “Just whiskey.”

“I—oh…” Sansa can barely think of the name of any kinds of alcohol, the room is already spinning so fast.

“She’ll take a Manhattan,” says Margaery pertly.

Loras looks at her with an expression of vague disbelief. “A Manhattan? Are you serious? You think she’ll like vermouth?”

“You never know ‘til you try,” Margaery sings sweetly. “And I’ll have something with vodka, something sweet.”

Loras rolls his eyes at his sister but does as she says. Soon Sansa is holding a wide, small cup with a dark brown liquor inside.

“Is this strong?” She asks.

“Yes,” says Dany immediately, “So you’re not drinking many of them.”

“I was just trying to expand her boundaries!” exclaims Margaery, with that award-winning smile, the one that could heal illnesses and end wars, cure cancer, probably. “Only one, Sans.”

Feeling rather young between the two of them (as she so often does) Sansa simply nods. After greeting Renly warmly, she turns to Loras. “So, I’ve heard you’re moving back here for a semester.”

Loras shrugs. “I don’t mind. There’s certainly enough space.”

“Does this mean more Tyrell parties?” Margaery asks her brother, voice hopeful.

“Yeah, but you’re not invited.”

“I’m eighteen,” she pouts.

“Eh. Maybe. If you’re good,” he says, leaning back to put an arm around Renly’s shoulder. They really are beautiful, the two of them: Renly with his incredible eyes, so much like the sky when it rains, and those perfect feline cheekbones. Not to mention that Loras’ curls are the envy of many women, Sansa is sure, and his smile is just as radiant as his sister’s.

“Were you excited about not being shipped off to boarding school?” Renly asks.

Margaery lets out a deep breath, as if she’s been holding it in all that time. “You have no idea, Ren. No idea.”

Sansa sits between Dany and Margaery on a gorgeous leather couch, sipping the drink. It’s… unusual, not something she would have ordered, but feels compelled to finish it anyway. “We’re all so glad you’re staying, Marg.”

“So am I,” says Margaery, and turns on her with that glittering smile, the one that to this day makes Sansa all nervous and fluttery inside. “It means more time with both of you.”

“I’ve been thinking…” Dany says.

“And?” Loras asks.

“I think we should take a road trip. You know, me and Margaery and you, Sansa.” Loras acts mock-affronted that he is not invited, as does Renly, but it just makes Sansa giggle. The alcohol is getting to her head.

“Where would we go?” asks Margaery, who holds her alcohol much better than Sansa does, despite her protests to the contrary.

“Just along the East Coast. Maybe New York. Maybe Highgarden.” At once Margaery’s eyes light up, as she takes a swallow of her drink. “Oh, God. I’ve love for you two to see Highgarden!”

“There’s a break two weeks after Christmas—they’re redoing something in the basement of the school, or something, so we could go then,” Margaery continues. “Just the three of us.”

“How romantic,” Loras coos.

“You’re such a fucknut,” Renly tells him.

But something has come alive within Sansa now, an excitement, an anticipation. To see Highgarden would be to see a part of Margaery that she’s never before seen. And so the three knock their glasses, promise that they’re in for it, and ask for another round of drinks.

 

* * *

 

It’s two-thirty in the morning when Loras suggests that the girls to bed. They’ve all drank a little more than they originally intended to, and Margaery’s jokes are getting worse and worse as the night progresses. So, obedient in their giggling drunken state, they start up the long path to Margaery’s bedroom. Margaery stops to kiss Loras on the cheek and Renly on the mouth (“You’re so drunk, Marg”) before she follows the other two in their wake.

Margaery’s room is immaculate, as always. There is not a single thing out of place; the pale moonlight filtering in the windows makes everything look silvery, glowing. At once Margaery throws herself upon her giant bed, and heaves a great sigh.

“I’m so drunk,” she announces.

“We noticed,” says Dany, who looks not a little tipsy herself. Dany kicks off her ankle boots and Sansa follows suit with her kitten heels. They place the shoes near the door, and then survey Margaery, laying face down on the bed.

Sansa is grateful that there was no awkwardness between them tonight—it was almost as if all of their complications, all of their awkwardness and shame had melted away. Sansa knows better than to believe it will last forever, but for now, her heart feels light and wide open, fluttering like a bird. _She doesn’t hate me after all. She doesn’t hate me._ _And that’s all I want._

“Undress me,” Margaery commands from the bed. “This dress is complicated.”

Something goes warm and soft in the pit of Sansa’s stomach, but Dany just laughs. “Whatever. Get up, and I’ll get you out of the dress.”

Margaery gets up, shakes out her long hair, and goes to Dany. “Turn around,” Dany tells her, and Margaery obediently does so (Dany is the only one who Margaery will listen to unquestioned, in all manners, Sansa has noticed). She unzips the stress and Margaery steps out of it, braless, with only a tiny black bikini on. Sansa feels frozen, uncertain—her heart is pounding somewhere in the back of her head. Do Dany and Margaery _always_ undress like this in front of each other?

Somewhat to her relief, Dany doesn't move to take off her dress, just tucks Margaery into bed as if she were a child. Margaery whispers something that Sansa can't hear, and Dany lowers her head, the curtain of white-gold hair falling low to veil her face. Dany responds in a soft voice, strokes Margaery's hair just once, and then turns back to Sansa.

The bed is enormous, more than big enough for three girls, but Sansa feels awkward at the notion of sleeping in between the girl she's dating and the girl she--she what? The girl she _loves_? Sansa watches Margaery for a moment, the way her lashes break like a wave against the skin of her cheek, how her small hand is knotted into the coverlet and her hair fanned all over the pillow. Her eyes flutter closed, and something transient aches in Sansa's chest, something sweetly sad.

In the end, Sansa does settle in between Dany and Margaery, touching neither. She is powerfully aware of the nearness of Margaery, of the ivory-flushed skin bare underneath the blankets, her harp-shaped back and the purse of her pretty little mouth. She tosses and turns, feeling an old, familiar heat rise up within her, until at last Dany draws her close and settles her with all the gentleness of a mother.

"You okay?" Dany asks, so softly.

"Yes," Sansa lies, and she hates herself for it, but oh--what else could she say?

What in the world could she possibly say?

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	28. secrets i.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a piece of fan art I stumbled across that I posted at the end of the chapter—check it out, because it’s absolutely adorable.
> 
> **Warning:** for brief mentioning of canon-level sexual assault.
> 
>   
> 

Christmas break begins with a blizzard that they should have been expecting—but they weren’t, and so Sansa holes up with Dany in her room, curled together on the bed and nursing mugs of hot chocolate, their gifts stacked neatly between them. Outside, everything is ivory and ice and fierce white gales; inside, in Sansa’s bedroom, it is warm and soft and inviting.

Dany’s hand is stroking along Sansa’s forearm, and the seemingly innocent contact is belied by the expresssion on Dany’s face; the blonde girl has one eyebrow arched wryly, a half-smile curving her lips. “What is it, Dany?”

“I think there’s something on your mouth…”

Sansa starts to laugh, and that laugh turns into a surprised little “oh” of shock when Dany leans over to kiss her, hard. Instantly she presses herself into it, still clutching the hot chocolate mug with one hand, parting her lips for Dany’s tongue. For long minutes they lose themselves to butterfly-light, soft kisses beneath the sound of the raging blaze outside—and then Dany pulls away, mouth so shiny and wet that Sansa can’t take her eyes off of it. The dragon girl just smiles.

“You should open it,” she says, arching that brow wryly again. It is a trick Sansa has never mastered.

“What?—Oh. Oh. The gift.” Sansa smiles, heat rushing to her face, and it just makes Dany laugh.

“I’d love to,” she says, and reaches for the box lying between them. It is heavy, much bigger than Sansa’s present for her, and cumbersome to unwrap. Sansa pulls herself into a sitting poition, puts the mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table, and begins to pull at the wrapping paper. When she sees what’s inside the box, she can’t help but smile widely.

“Aw, Dany—how’d you _know_?”

“How could I not?” Dany is grinning now, too. “You read like it’s your day job, Sansa Stark.”

There are three books—one a literary discussion of numerous fairy tales and old legends, one a dissection of popular mythologies, and then—this is the one that makes Sansa smile the most—a beautiful volume on wolves.

“Look at his eyes,” says Dany, motioning to the black-furred, yellow-eyed wolf on the cover. “Kinda like yours, yeah?”

“It’s wonderful,” says Sansa with a smile that she’s desperately trying not to become too large and goofy. “Thank you.”

Somehow, it’s perfect that Dany got her three massive books instead of something girly and romantic; it seems to suit them both, this time.

But then that leaves Sansa’s gift, which is…

Sansa has been inordinately excited about the thought of giving her gift to Dany—and not just to give it, but to see how it is received. Now she reaches over for the tiny box, wrapped neatly in ivory ribbon, and hands it to the other girl. She’s smiling, but almost doesn’t know why.

“It’s so little,” Dany muses, but now a grin is curving up the corners of her lips as well, and she doesn’t bother to try and hide it. She uncurls the ribbon and opens the tiny box—and then she gives a little gasp. “Oh, _Sansa_.”

It’s a bracelet ringed with black stones, obsidian, and with a little jewel glittering at the clasp. “It’s beautiful.”

Sansa reaches for the bracelet and unclasps it, before linking it around Dany’s slim wrist. “The stones come from far up north. My mom gave it to me my first year of high school, told me that I could give it to anyone I wanted. But—but there was no one I wanted to, not until you.”

“Really?” Dany’s pale eyes are shining with something that Sansa has never seen.

“Yes,” says Sansa, feeling her heart squeeze so tight in her chest.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been so sure of—anything,” says Sansa in response, and it’s the truth.

“No one’s ever given me anything like this before,” Dany says softly, and when Sansa turns to look up into her eyes, she sees the wonder shining brilliantly beside the pleasure. It makes something inside of Sansa twist, not unpleasantly. To be able to make her look like that—Dany’s face has all the guileless expectation of a child’s, and at once she leans in to kiss her girlfriend, so softly at first, and then harder, and then harder yet, until they’ve pinned each other’s hands between them and the bracelet is hanging, black and lovely, from Dany’s tiny wrist.

 

* * *

 

Sansa and Margaery decide to exchange presents at their favorite coffee shop, curled up warmly in the corner with two equally small boxes between them. Margaery is looking at them suspiciously—the even weight, the similar shape—and it makes Sansa burst out laughing.

“What is it, you weirdo?” She asks.

“Why do these boxes look identical?”

Sansa lifts her eyebrows as she takes a sip of her latte. “Great minds think alike?”

“You’re killing me,” says Margaery frankly, but she’s smiling now, that familiar poison-sweet smile, and Sansa can’t help but grin back. Margaery’s smiles are always like that: infectious, contagious. Startling.

Sansa had been careful not to gift Margaery with anything too intimate—she wasn’t sure how Dany would take it, or, indeed, herself—but when she saw the little box sitting on the Neiman Marcus shelf at the mall, she’d known there was no other gift she could possibly give.

Margaery reaches towards the box and pulls it towards her, unwrapping it carefully. When the paper is scattered all over the table and she sees what it is, her face bursts into a brilliant, sun-bright smile. “Perfume. But—“

“ _Winter Rose_ ,” says Sansa, smiling widely now too. “It’s like us.”

“Like us,” Margaery repeats, soft, thoughtful. For the briefest of moments, she isn’t smiling, and Sansa wonders if she’s done something wrong. But then that smile returns once more, and Margaery is spraying a little on her wrist and giving a tiny appreciative gasp. “It smells like—“

“—It smells like you,” finishes Sansa, blushing slightly for some reason that she doesn’t fully understand. “It smells… wonderful.”

“Oh?” Margaery looks at her coyly. “You like how I smell, Sansa Stark?”

“You always smell like flowers,” says Sansa, still flushed despite herself. “Like roses. You always smell like roses.”

Margaery reaches over, squeezes Sansa’s hand tight and sets her heart to tumbling. “Open mine.” Sansa smiles a little again, strangely nervous, and reaches for the little box. She unwraps it slowly, almost as if she’s afraid of what she’ll find. And then she sees it: yet another perfume (of course), but this one in a silvery-white box with a streak of gold, called _Northern Bloom_.

“ _Northern Bloom_ ,” she says, and then she’s smiling again, almost giddy, that Margaery knows her this well.

“My little northern flower,” says Margaery, lightly, teasingly, but it’s enough to make something twist in Sansa’s gut as hot as a knife. “Well? Smell it.”

Sansa sprays some on her wrist and sniffs daintily. At once she breaks out in a smile again; it’s ridiculous how much she’s smiled in the past five minutes, and how it makes her face ache. The perfume smells like snow-stained rock and a mountain winter. It smells like a pale white sky, like ice, like a northern chill. It smells like home.

“Thank you,” she says. “How did you know?”

“How did I know it was the right thing to give?” Margaery leans in a little in their booth, and her rosebud lips round in thoughtfulness. “Because you’re a northern girl, Sansa Stark. And that will never change.”

Sansa catches herself just in time: _I love you._ She doesn’t say it—not because it isn’t true, but because it is.

Instead she just shakes her head, sniffing at the cool wintery perfume, content beyond words. “Margaery Tyrell,” she says, with a little half-smile, “I think you’re my guardian angel.”

The other girl makes a faux-frown, rolling her light-struck eyes. “Still into that God stuff, are you?”

“Maybe not so much,” says Sansa, with a laugh. “But that doesn’t change the fact.”

Margaery reaches across the table, takes Sansa’s hands carefully in her own. Her palms are cold, smooth as pale jade. “Then I’m honored,” she replies, and with a thrill Sansa realizes she can’t tell if the other girl is joking or not. “And Sansa Stark, as your guardian angel, I will always, always protect you.” Sansa doesn’t know how long they sit there, holding hands. She doesn’t know the moment when Margaery pulls away, reluctantly, with a little sigh, as if letting out the first clear breath she’d drawn for hours. She doesn’t know when she puts her own hands back into her lap.

All Sansa knows is that she loves her, and that it doesn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

Christmas is a typical affair, full of distant relatives who Sansa can barely remember but who still think she’s young enough to have her cheeks pinched—gifts piled underneath the massive Stark Christmas tree, wrapped impeccably with red and golden bows on each—a snowball fight with Jon in the huge backyard of their house, until they are both laughing (a rare enough sight, for her brother) and red-faced and freezing, laying facedown in two feet of snow.

But the entire time Sansa can’t keep her mind off of the trip to Highgarden, the journey down the coast. In fact, Arya elbows her sharply during Christmas dinner and asks, in a rather high, carrying tone, “what the hell was going on with her.”

“Shut up,” Sansa hisses, and then smiles courteously at their aunt across the table. “Turkey, anyone?”

Arya corners her anyway (she’s rather good at that, all things considered) while Sansa is reading in her room late that night. “ _What_ , Arya?”

“Dude. This is like, your favorite holiday and you’ve been only half-present the whole time.” Arya climbs onto her sister’s bed without being invited; Sansa doesn’t have the heart to push her off. “What’s up? Remember—you can’t lie to me. I’m a human lie detector.”

This is true enough. Sansa sighs. “I’m going to Highgarden with Dany and Margaery Tyrell. That’s all.”

But at once Arya’s eyes come to life; they light up in the dimness of the bedroom. “Highgarden? Do you know how nice that place is supposed to be? Like, a mansion, but with a billion flowers. They have like six greenhouses and tons of balconies and—“

Sansa is looking at her, incredulous. “How do you know all of this?”

Arya sighs dramatically. “Because I spend half of my time on Google spying on your friends, duh.” She pokes Sansa in the ribs.

“And the other half with Gendry?”

Arya rolls her eyes. “No, with Nymeria. He has to know his place.”

Sansa is startled into laughter; Arya is, in turn, startled by her; and soon the two of them are laughing together, Arya’s low giggle offset by Sansa’s melodic one, both of them for once in utter and perfect unison.

 

* * *

 

The dawn of their departure dawns clear and cold, a winter morning that reminds Sansa of home. With her bag slung over her shoulder she stands and looks up at the sky: ice-white, looming heavy with snow. For a moment she misses it so much that her heart stings.

But not too long after that she sees Margaery pull up in her Audi, sunglasses pushed up on her perfect nose and Dany ashing a cigarette out of the front-door window. Somehow, the blonde girl makes even that act look regal. Sansa can’t help but smile; she sees them smile back at her, and after running into the house to say farewell to her parents she rushes back out into the snow to cram her bag into the little trunk.

“It’s called a trunk,” Margaery was saying as Sansa slid into the back seat.

“It’s not,” Dany says sharply. “It’s a _boot_.”

“Oh, my God,” says Margaery with a faux-exasperated sigh. “Fine. It’s a boot. You okay there, Miss Brit?”

“Much better now, thanks,” says Dany coolly as she drops the cigarette butt into a soda can. Then she turns, gives Sansa a slow and flickering smile. “And how are you, wolf girl?”

“Much better now, thanks,” says Sansa with a little hidden smile, leaning forward to kiss Dany on the mouth. The other girl tastes of smoke; Sansa finds that she hardly minds. When she draws away, she sees that they both are smiling. Margaery just sighs lightly, places her manicured hands on the steering wheel and coaxes the Audi to purr into powerful life.

“All right,” she says, facing the street before them. Sansa can see her profile from where she sits: slight unremarkable nose with the faintest hint of a curve; wide-blossoming eyes; rose lips half-parted, as if about to smile. She is pristine. She is, Sansa thinks, perfect. “Eight hours of driving, then a stop at a hotel. Or a motel, if we’re particularly unlucky.” She sighs.

“Spoiled,” says Dany, as regal as any queen.

“Incorrigible,” returns Margaery deftly.

Sansa can’t help but feel a little left to the side at times, when Margaery and Dany are together. _They’re best friends._ And she knows that; she does, but there’s something else between them that isn’t easily named. It isn’t romance; it isn’t friendship. It’s something else entirely, and Sansa wants to reach out, to probe with her fingertips, see and understand and feel this strange and unlikely thing. But she doesn’t. She’s too afraid of what she’d find.

“All right back there, Sans?” Margaery asks after turning down the music—something alternative-sounding, not what Sansa would have guessed she’d listen to, but pleasant to the ear nonetheless. It was dreamy and smooth, and practically lulling Sansa to sleep.

“I’m great,” she returns sweetly, and it’s true. She’d rather be here, with them, than just about anywhere else in the entire world. “Tell me more about your Christmas.”

“Oh, you know,” said Margaery, waving a hand airily. “Grandmother got a little drunk off the mimosas, but it was totally Loras’ fault. He doesn’t know how to make a weak drink.” Sansa laughs, because she knows perfectly well that it’s true. “But anyway, she thought she’d give me her usual drunken lecture—third-wave feminism—so I sat through that until Garlan rescued me and I could get drunk with Loras.” She pauses. “I love that woman more than anything, but I just had to have a Jason Bourne marathon with Loras. Accompanied by plenty of tequila, naturally.”

Dany laughs and lights another cigarette. Much to Sansa’s surprise, Margaery doesn’t complain. “Jason Bourne?”

“And then James Bond,” says Margaery smartly. “What? You’ve got to have all your hot action heroes in one place.”

“What about Superman?” asks Dany reasonably.

“No way,” replies Margaery, waving some of the smoke away. “You’ve got to go with Batman. He’s loaded and the villains are way better. I’d trade in this Audi for the Batmobile any day.” Sansa always forgets, how Margaery had grown up with so many brothers. “And there’s also Harley Quinn,” she adds, slyly.

“Your Harley Quinn was amazing,” says Dany with a smile, “But I much prefer Poison Ivy.” Remembering her costume, Sansa bites back a stupid grin, something inside of her going warm and soft.

Occasionally, though, she feels as though her mind is the same as the rippled-over ocean they wind their way past. She can’t help it; sometimes, you are lonely no matter how many people surround you. And it’s impossible to see much on the surface, of course; but once you take a deep breath, the deepest breath you can, and dive deep—your eyes sting, the world comes to life, and Sansa thinks—she feels—that she would feel Dany’s heart beating beneath the waves, leaping, caught like a fish on a hook.

And always the water, always changing, never the same wave twice.

Two hours into their trip, her eyes flutter closed—and the next thing she knows, they are pulling up on a frozen-white beach, the fierce lapping of the waves as loud as an avalanche to their ears. Yawning from her sleep, stretching out her limbs like a cat, Sansa murmurs, “What are we doing?”

“Margaery wants to see the ocean,” says Dany, and unbuckles her seatbelt. “C’mon, wolf girl.”

Margaery is already out of the Audi, walking towards the crashing waves as if sleepwalking. Sansa is almost afraid to go and put a hand on her shoulder, as if it would disturb her, wake her up from whatever trance she’s inexplicably found herself in. And then, to her surprise, Margaery is stripping off her coat, kicking off her too-expensive flats, and walking towards a wide flat rock partially submerged in winter-cold sea.

“Margaery!” Sansa cries. “You can’t—“ But there’s Dany with a hand on her arm, smiling a little, as if to say: _No one tells Margaery what she can and can’t do._

_Except you_ , Sansa thinks in return.

The two girls stand hand-in-hand on the winter-frozen beach as Margaery steps up on top of the rock, lightly, as lightly as a dancer. The water laps at her ankles, but she doesn’t seem to feel the cold. She stands there for what seems like years, eons, until she finally kneels and the ocean rushes over her legs like holy water, chaotic, as if she is the daughter of Poseidon. She doesn’t budge.

She doesn’t shiver once.

Sansa wonders what she sees, what she thinks as she sits there alone. She receives her answer later, as Margaery is changing into dry clothes behind the Audi, a tiny smile on her lips. Margaery just says that the sea has always called to her: all those waves, all that open unbroken space. Sansa doesn't think it's much of an answer, herself, but knows better than to pry. The Tyrell girl will tell her when she feels like it.

Which may be soon, Sansa thinks to herself with a little smile, or it may be never.

 

* * *

 

Much to Margaery’s chagrin, the three of them end up at a rickety motel rather than the four-star hotel the brunette was hoping for. Sansa knows that Margaery is hardly a brat; but she’s grown up with the finest of everything, and letting go of it must be hard, harder than Sansa realizes.

It’s dark already, and they’re nearly out of gas, and Sansa watches quietly as Margaery submits to Dany, as she almost always does. It’s an odd sight to see. Margaery Tyrell, queen of Providence Academy, who dates the richest and the most well-bred boys, who has a little army of teenage girls at her command—giving in to this fragile black-dressed girl with the lifted chin and unnaturally lovely violet-blue eyes. Impossible, Sansa thinks.

But just because something is impossible doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

“Fine,” she concedes at last, parking the Audi rather haphazardly. There are only two other cars parked outside of the motel. “This will… be fine.”

“And cheap,” offers Dany, who’s always watching her money. They check in—only $60 a night—and drag their bags into the little dark room.

The room reveals a single bed with a paisley-printed comforter, and Sansa somehow manages to let out a high, glittering laugh. “Really?”

“You planning on a threesome or something?” Dany grunts as she lugs her heavy suitcase across the floor.

Margaery flushes. “I’m getting into this miserable tub and taking a shower,” the Tyrell girl announces abruptly, ignoring Dany’s jib. “Both of you better be here when I get back.” She pauses. “And stop whining about the bed.”

“I’m going to get us some whiskey,” says Dany, swinging up from her suitcase.

“But you’re only eighteen,” says Sansa, wonderingly.

“Oh, Sans,” comes Margaery’s warm voice. “If you think that a girl that looks like that can’t swipe some whiskey, then you’re even more naive than you look."

Sansa blushes, and spends her time waiting at the edge of the bed, swinging her heels. Momentarily she wonders if she should unpack—but they’re only here for one night, after all, and neither Margaery nor Dany have made any move to do so. She only relaxes when the front door swings open again and Dany comes in, a bag in one hand and a cold smile on her lips.

“You look so…” But the Targaryen girl can’t finish her thought. Instead she drops the whiskey on the cheap thin carpet and straddles Sansa’s legs, pulling herself close. She flutters her snow-white eyelashes at the other girl, and Sansa feels something within herself turn, almost as if she’s already had half the bottle of whiskey herself. “You’re so…” But what she is, Sansa doesn’t know, because then Dany is kissing her, so softly, so faintly, almost like a butterfly alighting on a flower. And then it changes, and she’s hungry, hard, and a cruel little thrill races through Sansa as she winds her arms around her girlfriend’s neck, and then—

“I do have a gift for doing this, don’t I?” Margaery, of course. The girl is standing in the steamy half-open doorway, clad only in a roughspun towel, a strange smile-that-is-not-quite-a-smile gracing her lips.

“You always have.”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t like it, Dany,” says Margaery, in a cool tone of voice that Sansa has hardly ever heard her use.

But Dany actually flushes, her cheeks a faint rose as if stained by wine. Now Sansa’s curiosity is piqued, and she’s not sure if she wants to know the answer. “What do you mean, Marg?”

“It’s nothing,” says Dany, almost sharply, and the serrated edge to her voice quiets Sansa. Dany has never so much as raised her voice to her before; and so startled, Sansa says nothing.

She changes into her short blue nightgown and sits on the edge of the bed, book in her hands. She isn’t quite sure how the sleeping arrangements are going to fare. There’s barely enough room for one of them on the bed, much less three. But Sansa has gone camping with her brothers before: she knows how to sleep on a hard surface. Still she perches on the bed, watching Margaery and Dany drift about the room, talking about nothing in particular, wishing to ease whatever strange tension remains.

And then Dany’s phone began to ring. Once, twice, three times. When Sansa looks over to her, the blonde comes and sits next to her, smiles reassuringly, as if all is well with the world. “It’s just Viserys.”

“And you’re not picking up,” says Sansa.

Something dark passes through Dany’s eyes. “No. No, I’m not.”

“But you always answer him,” says Sansa, a little surprised.

“I’m done,” whispers Dany, so quietly that Sansa has to lean in to hear. “I’m done taking care of him when he never took care of me.” There is something so profound in her eyes that it is almost violent. The force of it makes Sansa look away.

Margaery has drifted over now, as well, and is sitting on the other side of Dany.

“Dany…” She starts, softly. “What happened?”

The blonde laughs shortly, reaching for the whiskey bottle. She’s already had three or four shots.

“Do you really want to know?” Sansa exchanges a look with Margaery, careful, placid. Dany is taking another shot of whiskey. It’s unlike her to drink so much, and Sansa doesn’t know what to say.

“Yes,” says Margaery, finally. “If you want to tell.”

“It’s just hard,” says Dany, queerly soft now, “To carry something untold inside of you for so long. It’s hard. It gets… heavy.”

Sansa moves her hand to clasp Dany’s. The other girl doesn’t move away. She is afraid that she knows exactly what happened to Dany; she is afraid she knows exactly why the other girl’s face is so pale, so drawn, her eyes so empty, as if all the color has drained out. She’s afraid that for once, she’ll be right.

“He touched me,” says Dany, shortly. “When I was young. And then I grew up, grew prettier, more desirable, I guess, and he’d come to my bedroom—“

“He did _what?_ ” Margaery is torn between hopelessness and anger; Sansa can sense it in her.

“He tried to…“ Dany shakes her head, fiercely, bites off the thought. “He came into my bedroom at night, pushed up against me. I just remember…”

“What?” Margaery’s voice is the gentlest that Sansa has ever heard it. “You remember what?”

“He felt so heavy.” Dany’s pale eyes look as though they’re seeing nothing at all. “He’s not—he’s thin, but he’s wiry, and I was thirteen, and—“

Sansa feels as though she’s about to throw up, and suddenly she remembers what Dany said to her once, all of those millions of years ago on the beach: _Everyone we love hurts us eventually_.

Oh, God. She’d been so stuck in her stupid memories—the girl with the dark honey-colored hair, California, those beautiful, smiling boys—that she’d never seen, she’d never thought—

“Dany—“ But she can’t reach out, she can’t touch her again. She can’t.

“It’s not your fault,” Dany says darkly. “It’s no one’s fault but his.”

“But—“ That was Margaery, always moving, always thinking, “—Let’s go to the cops, let’s tell them, let’s _tell_ them—“

“Tell them what?” Dany looks dead behind the eyes, and something inside of Sansa is curling, shriveling up so infinitely small. “Tell them what? I have no proof. _Had_ no proof. He didn’t—you know—“

The stupidest thing unlodges itself from Sansa’s throat. “He’s your brother.”

“That didn’t stop him,” said Dany softly. “Maybe it just urged him on.”

Sansa’s gaze trails to Margaery’s, helpless, contained. They are worse than useless; there is nothing, possibly, that they can do. Joffrey was one thing; Sansa knows that even now, Margaery is cooking up a plot to even the score between them. But this is different.

This isn’t a matter of cut breaks and comas and intoxicating girls waking like enchanted sleeping beauties. This is uglier, even more hideous, so repulsive that it makes Sansa’s skin crawl, goosebumps shiver along her arms.

“Dany,” she whispers, as if it’s the only word she knows, “Dany. Dany. I’m so—“

“It’s over,” she says shortly. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?” Suddenly, her voice is fierce. “Aren’t I?”

“Yes,” says Margaery, gently. “And you always will.”

Silence falls, but it is not the silence of a peaceable rest. It is the silence that comes after the delivering of bad news to a crowded room, of tragedy. Sansa stares at their entwined fingers: so white and pale, like the snow drifting outside their window.

“Why did you decide to go against him now?” She asks, softly, afraid to incite the Targaryen girl’s anger.

“He tried to touch me again before I left,” says Dany bitterly. “I bit him. And then I shoved him, and then I left.”

Something in her voice seems to break Sansa’s heart. She tilts her face down to hide it, and to her shame feels her eyes growing warm. She senses Dany pull her to her, rub her back as if she were a child or some wild animal in need of being tamed, as if she was the one in need of comforting. And when Sansa finally pulls away, she sees clearly that her girlfriend is not crying.

She’s plotting revenge.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, the whiskey bottle is nearly empty, and all three girls are sitting cross-legged on the uncomfortable mattress. Dany wears a black slip; Margaery, a red rose nightgown to her mid-thighs. Their hair is brushed back from their faces and Sansa finds them almost unforgivably beautiful.

It’s easier now, with nearly half a bottle of whiskey lighting up her veins, to forget about what Dany said. And if there’s anything Sansa has ever been good at, it’s forgetting. Margaery’s foxlike face is animated, which does not surprise Sansa. The other girl can’t bear unhappiness, and she soothes Dany in the only way she knows how. She is how she’s always been: perfect, masked, pristine. Sansa envies her.

_Be strong. For once, just once, be strong. Be the strong one. Can’t you even do that?_

But Dany and Margaery have already moved on; they’re passing the whiskey bottle between them, though Dany’s fingers remain entwined in Sansa’s. Every so often she leans in for a kiss, but Sansa can barely stand it, because to her it just tastes of sadness.

“We used to do this all the time,” says Margaery, and Sansa marks how her voice is slightly slurred. “We’d get so drunk; do you remember that time my mom caught us drinking her tequila?”

To Sansa’s surprise, Dany laughs. “And you tripped down the stairs and I had to hold you the whole night to keep you quiet.” She shakes her head, curtain of white-gold hair falling to hide half her face. “You never get that drunk.”

Suddenly Sansa is bristling like a cat, at full attention. _I had to hold you the whole night._ She looks over at Dany, knowing this is at least in part the thing that she did not want to discuss before. Her curiosity is acutely painful; she is staring now at Margaery, begging her with her eyes to say more, to say it all.

“I still can’t believe we—“

“What?” Margaery turns from watching Sansa carefully to eye Dany. “What do you mean?”

Dany lifts the whiskey bottle to her lips. For such a small girl, she can drink an admirable amount and still remain relatively sober. “You know.” Sansa isn’t blind to the guilty look she shoots in her direction. “Last year. Around New Years. You and me, we had all those vodka cranberries, and we went to your room, and…”

But Margaery is on fire with puzzlement. “What? What did we do? I don’t remember, Dany—I just remember falling asleep.”

The whiskey bottle actually slips from Dany’s hand to the bed. She stares at Margaery open-mouthed, one hand digging into the threadbare coverlet. The expression on her face is entirely unfamiliar to Sansa: confusion, disbelief, guilt. Embarrassment. And Sansa thinks that something in her chest might be caving in.

“Margaery,” says Dany, voice velvet-soft now despite the effects of the whiskey, “We had sex.”

The room whirls. Sansa is positive, absolutely positive, that they would not be having this conversation in the room with Sansa here if it were not for the whiskey—but that matters little enough now. _I wasn’t her first. My girlfriend was._

“I didn’t think—I mean—“ Dany is stumbling over her words, a rare enough sight. It makes Sansa’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t seem—that drunk. Not anymore drunk than me, anyway. And you…you wanted it—“

“Stop,” Margaery says sharply, obviously distressed. “Just stop, Dany. Oh my God, why didn’t you _tell_ me? Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d want a reminder,” says Dany, strangely helpless and fighting to regain her imperious composure. “I thought you’d be embarrassed. We were just friends. There were no feelings—“

“How do you know that?” Margaery demands now, arching her back, autumnal hair falling into her ivory-pale face. "How do you know there were no feelings involved?” Sansa can tell immediately that she is drunk, and saying more than she'll want to remember.

And at this, Dany has absolutely nothing to say. She is as shocked as Sansa; perhaps moreso, by the insinuation of it all. But Margaery isn’t done. She’s fueled by fury and whiskey and maybe, just maybe, a half-broken heart as well.

“Don’t you know what I felt the moment I met you?” She whispers. Her voice is so soft now that Sansa has to crane her neck to hear it. “Do you know what I thought when I saw you? I thought—‘I’m going to make this girl love me, because then she can never leave me.’ That’s what I thought, Dany. That’s literally what I thought. I barely knew you, and I was terrified you would leave.” Margaery takes in a little breath. “Isn’t that insane? Do you know why I never told you, now? Because that was absolutely fucking crazy. And I’m not like that. I’m not.”

Sansa has never seen her so raw, so painfully and achingly honest. The facades she wears as masks have all but dropped away. And now Sansa sits there simmering in shock, an emptiness within her gut as hollow as the space between stars.

“For a year, I lived through you,” Margaery murmurs, lips wet and red and faintly trembling. “But you looked right through me. Always.”

“But—you were dating that congressman’s son, the basketball player’s kid—“

“And they never lasted, did they?” Margaery hisses. “But you did.”

“And do you still—“

Margaery’s glance flickers to Sansa, curled up on the bed, eyes wide and gleaming with hopelessness. “No. I mean, there’s someone else. But I’ll probably never stop loving you, Dany. And I know I’ll regret this in the morning but right now there’s nothing else I can say. The first moment I saw you—I know this sounds so stupid—but it was like feeling one of the first breaths of air I’ve ever taken.” Sansa draws in her own breath, sharply: all of the clues had been there, laid out before her. Dany stroking Margaery’s hair; Margaery kissing her cheek and telling her she was beautiful; their jokes, their secret laughter; Dany tucking a weary Margaery into bed. All of the clues had been there, and she, in her ignorance, had missed them all.

“What you said wasn’t stupid,” says Dany, voice strangely tight. “Because I do love you. And I’ll never leave you.”

“No. Everything I love,” says Margaery softly, slowly, “Gets taken from me.” She’s talking about Dany; she’s talking about Sansa; she’s talking about something else, though Sansa does not know what. And for the first time Sansa acknowledges how hard it must be, how achingly painful, to watch the two of them so happy together.

“And the craziest thing,” says Margaery, with a bitter half-laugh, “Is that I’ve only ever liked two girls in my entire life. And somehow they’ve managed to turn my life upside down in ways that boys could never dream of.” Her voice is slurred, but somehow perfectly clear; the pain resonates like heat. “I wish I’d had some warning. I wish I’d…” But she doesn’t know what she wishes, and neither does Sansa.

“You should have told me,” says Dany, and her voice is almost accusative. It’s the wrong thing to say.

“Are you kidding? Tell my best friend that I loved her?” Margaery is nearly bristling with anger now, but Sansa sees as clear as anything that this anger just masks a sharp and abiding hurt. “Then you’re as crazy as I am.”

“It would have made things a lot—“

“I’m not like you!” Margaery says sharply. “I’m not as brave as you! I never have been! And do you want the truth, Dany?” Her voice is almost rising now, and it's something that Sansa's never heard before. “Well, I’m practically all alone in this world—except for you, except for Sansa. Is that what you wanted to hear? Because that’s what’s true. That’s what I know. You and Sansa are the only ones I have.”

And then she’s leaping off the bed, shoving her bare feet into her black riding boots and pulling on her heavy overcoat.

“Don’t, Marg—“

“Don’t tell me what to do, Dany,” she says bitterly. “You lost that chance, I think.”

She slams the door behind her.

Sansa finds her sitting on the little mismatched bench outside of room 26, shivering against the New England winter. Snow is gathering around her ankles, and Sansa wants to coax her back inside, into the warmth. But she knows as well as anyone that it won’t work.

Timidly, she sits next to her. The snow is piling up cold around the two girls, but the silence it blankets them in is strangely beautiful. In the sky there are so few stars.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Margaery says now, staring off into something that Sansa can’t see. Then her voice drops. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“It’s okay,” whispers Sansa, and rests her head on Margaery’s shoulder. “I know what it’s like to be afraid.” And it’s true.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” she adds, and she means it. Even now. Especially now. Knowing that Margaery has had to watch the two of them, Sansa and Dany, together, and not utter a single word—knowing that she loves Sansa and has to swallow it all down. Knowing that she is alone not by circumstance but by choice, because the ones she loved chose someone else. Margaery can have anyone, Sansa thinks; but she chooses not to. She chooses to suffer, quietly, in that silent way of hers. In that moment in the snow Sansa thinks she’s never seen anyone more stubbornly proud, more beautiful.

“I’m not,” says Margaery, and Sansa hears her voice crack. “If I was, I never would have let you go.”

Sansa slips her hands into Margaery’s, gives them a squeeze. She can’t speak; her throat is tight, choked-up.

“It’s like you took a piece of me,” sighs Margaery, leaning her head on Sansa’s now. “And I want that part of me back. But at the same time…”

“I know,” Sansa whispers. “I know.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispers again, without a second thought. “I do.”

“Me, too,” says Margaery, giving Sansa’s hand a squeeze. “Maybe not the same way. I don’t know. But she’s incredible, and you—you deserve her.”

“You deserved her too,” returns Sansa, and at this she feels the fragile frame of Margaery shake briefly, tremble, against her form. When she tilts her face up she sees to her surprise tears all down the brunette’s cheeks, and then, slowly, Margaery’s face draws nearer. Her lips brush Sansa’s, but it is not a kiss.

“Thank you,” she says, so softly. “I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. I never act like that. But carrying that around for so long—it felt like something was clawing away at me.”

“She’ll understand,” says Sansa, seriously. “You know she will.” She rubs Margaery’s bare hands gently, to keep them warm. Sometimes it almost hurts, how much she loves the Tyrell girl. Sometimes it feels like she’s being split open, and one more cut will be the death of her. _God is in you, and that’s the closest I’ve ever gotten._ That's what Margaery had said. Had she meant it?

“Keep dating her,” whispers Margaery. “You’re so good together.” Her fingertips trace the line of Sansa’s cheekbone, and Sansa shudders pleasantly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” whispers Sansa in return, wondering somehow if she’s making the biggest mistake of her life. “Okay. And what’ll you do?”

Margaery turns to look at her again. Her eyes are as wide, as innocent and remarkably sad as Sansa has ever seen them, and so are the words she speaks:

“I’m just waiting for the moment when I know everything will be okay.”

 

 

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> This is by **polar-biscuit** on tumblr. If you're the artist and want me to take it down, just let me know! But i totally love it, for the record. :)


	29. secrets ii.

 

 

They stay out there until the dark weakens, the clouds lighten and the first pale shadows of predawn sweep across an evanescent sky.

Margaery has her head on Sansa’s shoulder, and Sansa wonders if she’s still sleeping. She doesn’t want to make the slightest movement, doesn’t want to disturb her rest—but they’ll be getting up to leave in a few hours, and Sansa is desperately longing for a hot shower to coax the chill from her bones. Madly enough, they’ve spent all night curled up on the long bench, Margaery’s hair spilled all over Sansa’s shuttered face.

If all goes well, they’ll reach Highgarden today. Sansa shivers, though not from cold (they’re both bundled up, and right now it’s almost unseasonably warm). Highgarden is all she wants. She isn’t sure why, isn’t sure why it means so much to her—other than that she’s always wanted to touch every part of Margaery, probe with her fingertips, reach into the recesses of the place where she keeps the darkest of her secrets. Sansa wants to know every part of the other girl. She wants it to be like that night in the kitchen, when they stood so close and so tight that she could catch the beating of her heart.

But now her mind returns to Dany with a leaden sort of inevitably. She supposes she should have known. She supposes she shouldn’t have been so surprised—she supposes it shouldn’t hurt quite this much.

But it does.

Margaery shifts a little on Sansa’s shoulder, yawns like a half-awake kitten. Sansa reaches over to brush away the hair that’s fallen in the other girl’s eyes. She’d worn it curly the day before, but it still slips like silk through Sansa’s fingers. In repose, her face is peaceful, almost empty. _Tabula rasa_. Sansa doesn’t want to disturb her—doesn’t want to bring back the memories of the night before—but she has no choice.

“Margaery?”

The other girl blinks into awakeness slowly. “Aren’t you cold?” She murmurs, burying deeper into Sansa.

“No,” says Sansa, honestly. “Not with you here.”

“Wolf girl…” Margaery is looking at her carefully, running her gaze over her mouth, her nose, her eyes. “Thank you.” The last two words are nothing but a whisper.

“For what?”

“For being here,” says Margaery. She bends around Sansa to look down the long porch, eyes their motel room door. “I don’t know if I can go back in. She knows. She knows _everything_.” Margaery takes a shuddering breath. “And if there’s one thing Tyrells don’t do, it’s make fools out of ourselves.”

“You didn’t make a fool out of yourself,” says Sansa fiercely, surprising even herself. “There’s nothing embarrassing about loving someone. Nothing.” She wonders if she believes the words she says; she wonders that if she forgets the pain, it will vanish like the stars above her in the rose-edged sky.

How odd, to pretend as if she is a mere observer in this game, a watcher, a hanger-on. How strange to act as if she isn’t Dany’s girlfriend, that she doesn’t love her. That she doesn’t love them both.

A chill shudders up her spine, and suddenly the winter air seems much colder than it had before. _That she doesn’t love them both._ Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?

Magaery’s mouth twists wryly. “What was it that you said to me, the night I kissed you? That everyone loves the wrong person?”

Sansa cringes, remembering. _Maybe I was wrong._ But Margaery, as usual, isn’t done.

“And all I can think about is how I told you I wanted to save you,” she continues, with a little sad laugh. “But now it almost seems like I’m the one who needs saving, isn’t it?”

 _We can save each other._ But it sounds so stupid, so naïve (even for her), that Sansa can’t bring herself to say it.

“Why’d you do that?” She asks suddenly, out of nowhere. “Go and sit in the ocean. Weren’t you freezing?”

Margaery surprises her by laughing again, velvet-soft. “You’ve never wanted to go into the ocean?”

“Not in the middle of winter,” Sansa replies.

“I wanted to feel it,” Margaery says. “I wanted to feel the cold and the rush of water. I mean, how many people can say they went into the ocean in the middle of a New England winter?”

“Only you?”

Margaery laughs. “Exactly.”

Sansa shakes her head, but she can’t help but smile. It’s just so Margaery. Always the first, always the most driven, always the best—and Sansa finds she doesn’t mind at all. She’s never been competitive, and Margaery’s quirks are more deeply endearing than anything else. Suddenly she’s grinning, and Margaery leans so close that for a terrifying—an elating—moment, she thinks that the other girl will kiss her full on the mouth.

But instead Margaery just ducks away, shaking out her gleaming sun-browned hair. “Oh, wolf girl. Sometimes I wish I could be who you think I am.”

“You are,” says Sansa bluntly. “You’re everything I ever wanted to be, everything I ever want—“

She cuts herself off one word too late. Mercifully, Margaery ignores it.

“And what’s that?” She asks. Her heart-shaped face is pink from the faint chill. “What am I to you, Sansa Stark?”

“You kind of feel like…a heartbeat in my chest,” says Sansa, flushing at how silly the words sound once they leave her mouth. But she doesn’t take them back. If there’s one thing she’s learned from Margaery, it’s to never take things back. “It’s like every morning you happen to me all over again. I…I don’t know what it is, Marg.”

“No,” Margaery murmurs softly, her face now a picture of soft intent. She reaches up to touch Sansa’s cheek, as she did the night before. “But I think I do.”

“I just wish you would have met me—before,” Sansa says quietly. “You’d have liked me, then. I wish I could be who I once was. You know?”

“Wolf girl,” replies Margaery, and her voice is dead serious with intent. “You are not broken. You are not damaged. You are not _shattered_. Do you understand me?”

Sansa just nods, wordless, unsure if she can believe no matter how desperately she tries.

“What that girl—and those boys—did to you, it doesn’t change you. Don’t you remember what I said at the Halloween party? Only the weak are cruel. And it’s true, wolf, it’s true.” Suddenly, she smiles, and Sansa wonders for a moment if, for some strange reason, there is the faintest sheen of moisture in Margaery’s brilliant sun-caught eyes. “And you are not weak, and you are not cruel. Got it?”

This time, Sansa believes her. She clasps Margaery’s hand tight, so tight, but the other girl doesn’t protest.

“I guess we should go in,” says Margaery, squeezing Sansa’s hand. _How is she always so brave?_

“You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” replies the brunette, shaking out her autumn-colored curls. And then she stands, pulls Sansa up off the bench, and they make their solemn way back towards the motel room.

 

* * *

 

Dany is sitting at the edge of the perfectly-made bed, dressed in thick black woolen leggings and a gorgeous dark tunic, a book open in her hands. Her back is perfectly straight, her eyes on the words in front of her—and when the door swings open, she looks over at Sansa and Margaery without the slightest gleam of remorse. There is no embarrassment on her face: just a dozen questions that Sansa fears she will never be able to answer.

“I was going to go check on you,” Dany admits, sounding almost stern. “Wasn’t it cold?”

“Warm for New England,” says Sansa with a smile, going forward to kiss her. Margaery lingers by the doorway, a stranger in a room of complete and utter complexity.

And it’s then that it hits Sansa—like a blow to the stomach, a shot to the gut. _I wasn’t Margaery’s first. Dany was._ Why did it hurt so much? Sansa isn’t even sure which pains her more: that she was not Margaery’s first, or that her girlfriend had sex with a girl who she loves. How can your heart can be in so many pieces at once? She is scattered, picking up the loose shards left behind, cutting herself on the glass.

Margaery, as she sees it, is safety. She is brilliant and pristine and knows how to wear a mask of perfect illusory happiness, no matter what the day. Dany, though, is different. Sansa hasn’t leapt into her depths quite yet—she doesn’t know how. But she does know, though, that the blonde girl always leaves too soon; that she never arrives fast enough; that her shining smiles are always just a little too brief; that her laughter never lingers just the right amount of time. Sansa has made her imperfect; it’s the only defense she has.

 _You can’t fall so completely again,_ she tells herself. _Not for either of them. Not for both of them. You can’t. You can’t._

She summons up Rickon’s face in her memory, and suddenly her throat is dry.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery is saying, in a rare show of humility. She only ever acts in such a way around Dany. Sansa looks over at the blonde girl; her face is soft, not hard as she’d expected. “I shouldn’t have thrown a fit. And I shouldn’t have had all that whiskey.”

“No,” says Dany, closing the hefty book in her hands. _Crime and Punishment._ “I should’ve tried to be more sympathetic. And I—I am sorry, Margaery. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.” Her chin is still lifted, her startling eyes still cold—but there’s a warmth in her words that Sansa hadn’t known to expect.

Margaery licks her lips, nervously. It’s almost as if Sansa isn’t in the room. “But you—you never—you never felt—“ Margaery is never clumsy with words. Except, Sansa thinks, when it comes to Dany. When it comes to emotion. When it comes to something, anything, really, like love.

Dany smiles, a little sadly. The braids in her long white-blonde hair make a faint glittering sound as she moves. “Maybe I did. But maybe I thought you wouldn’t understand. Maybe even I didn’t understand it.”

Margaery doesn’t say anything at first. Then she goes and sits down on the bed next to Dany, not touching, except for brushing the other girl’s pinkie finger with her own. “You do love me, right?” Her voice is strangely vulnerable, tender. So unlike Margaery.

Dany puts the book down on the bed, turns, and wraps her arms around the other girl. “I’ll always love you. You know that, right? You could be a serial killer and I swear to God, I’d still love you. I would.” Margaery untenses the cradle of her spine, rests her head on Dany’s slim shoulder, and her eyes meet Sansa’s through the dimness of the room.

She smiles. It’s sad, but still—it’s something.

It’s something.

 

* * *

 

While Margaery showers to rid the cold from her bones, Sansa and Dany lay back on the narrow bed and talk of all the things they wish they didn’t have to say.

“So you loved Margaery,” says Sansa softly, timidly. She is staring at the ceiling. “And she loved you.”

“I don’t know if it was love,” Dany responds, slipping her hand into Sansa’s. “I don’t know if there was a name for it. All I knew was that she made me feel brave enough to stay in one place. You know? I spent my whole life, wandering. And then I met Margaery—and I didn’t have to wander anymore.”

Something catches in Sansa’s chest, but she doesn’t let it show.

Dany turns her face on the thin pillow. “Is that how you feel about me?”

“Not exactly,” says Sansa, a part of her reveling in this strange intimacy and a part of her utterly terrified of it. “It’s more like… when I’m with you, I’m not scared anymore. When I’m with you I’m happy. And when you’re not here…sometimes I lose it, kinda. I just lose it.”

“It’s a little like what my adoptive mom says,” Dany murmurs softly. “Be careful about who you meet. Because you can’t go back.”

“But you’re like my strength,” persists Sansa, leaning up on her elbow. “And Margaery… I don’t know. I don’t always know where she fits.”

“It’s funny,” says Dany, with a tiny grin. “Perfect, perfect Margaery. Not a curl out of place or a single smile at the wrong moment. Right? But she’s got to be one of the most complicated people I’ve ever met.”

Sansa is quiet for a moment, thinking about this. She can’t deny it; she can’t say it’s untrue. Beneath the perfectly pleated skirts and iron-pressed blouses, the glittering smiles and golden-brown eyes, there lays something that Sansa has never been allowed to touch—for Margaery guards this secret, whatever it is, desperately, with all of her heart. And for a girl who smiles so sweetly, who laughs so often and so freely, Sansa thinks to herself that a part of Margaery is just so terribly, terribly sad.

“We can never leave her,” she says suddenly. “Remember what she said last night? About us being the only true friends she has? We can’t ever leave her. Okay?” The most popular girl in school—and also, Sansa thinks now, perhaps one of the most lonely.

Dany turns her face, leans in to give Sansa a butterfly-light kiss. “I could never leave her, Sans. Never. I just couldn’t.”

Sansa smiles at her, reassured, but is also rapidly becoming aware of how complicated the situation between the three of them really is. What do they want from each other—from her? And why does her heart ache like something feral has sunk its teeth into the bright-beating organ?

 _How long can you want someone and not reach for them?_ She wonders, almost distantly.

_How long can you hold your breath underwater?_

* * *

 

They’re an hour and a half late getting back on the road (it turns out that Dany’s long white-blonde hair with the tiny braids and Margaery’s silk-smooth locks take more time than Sansa had originally thought) but it’s a relief to settle into the back seat of the Audi and rest her forehead against the window. They’re heading south, the bite of winter is growing thinner, and the sky is a startling robin egg’s blue.

“God, it’s gorgeous here,” Dany sighs, as the snow melts and the wild country before them spreads out like a dream.

Margaery laughs. “You just hate snow, don’t you?”

“I come from the Middle East,” the other girl says practically. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I dunno,” Margaery says, as she carelessly blows through a red light. “I like winter. Sans?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” Sansa replies breezily, and Margaery gives Dany a triumphant look. It’s almost as if the awkwardness, the pain, in the hotel room hadn’t taken place.

It takes only three hours to reach Highgarden, and when they arrive, Sansa can barely breathe.

It’s an old mansion with ancient stone holding up the foundation, yellowing glass windows, enormous arched green doors and gateways that lead to open balconies. It’s enormous. It’s nearly twice as big as the Tyrell estate, and even more beautiful, too. There are greenhouses scattered around the massive yard, flowers unfurling their faces even in the warmth of winter, and there is not a drop of snow to be seen. When Sansa rolls down the window of the Audi, she immediately feels sweetly warm.

“Well?” Margaery’s eyes are shining with a happiness that Sansa has never seen on her before. “Do you like it?”

The manor sprawls through the overgrown grass, the sunlight is glinting off the roofs of the greenhouses, and there is an almost summery glow in the air. Sansa is smiling. She can’t help it. “It’s gorgeous. Marg, it’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“Oh, wow,” says Dany, gazing out from the front seat. She has her coat bundled up in her arms. “This reminds me of a place I used to stay at when I was just a kid, in Italy, with….” But she trails off here, either unable or unwilling to say Viserys’ name aloud. Margaery glances back at Sansa with a worried expression, but there is nothing they can do. Not here, not now.

“It reminds me of a place I used to call home,” she finishes. Sansa reaches out to touch her arm, and Dany—somehow—smiles.

Margaery unlocks the front door of the stone mansion and lets them in. Within, it’s all dark wood paneling and high ceilings, bowls of fragrant flowers and carved tables of marble and fine obsidian. It’s the most beautiful place Sansa has ever seen, and she stands with her bag in the entrance gaping, for once without a polite compliment or sweet assurance to leave her lips.

Margaery laughs out loud at her reaction. It seems as if the pain, the tears, have been left behind at the little motel. _She’s home,_ Sansa realizes with a start. _She’s home._

They spend an hour and a half exploring the place, every nook and cranny they can find, including a hidden passageway behind an enormous portrait of one of Margaery’s ancestors. They spend a half hour in there, giggling, and it’s as if wings are spreading wide within Sansa’s ribs, that hollow cage of bones. And for that half hour, it’s as if everything is okay again.

Dany announces that she’s going to make dinner in the exquisite lower kitchen—Sansa expects something exotic as usual, but the blonde promises Italian—and this leaves Margaery and Sansa with more time to continue exploring the house.

In the end, they end up in Margaery’s childhood bedroom. It’s three times the size of the one at the Tyrell estate, with a gauzy canopied bed and beautiful boudoir. In the corner there is an enormous gilded mirror, and for a moment Margaery stands before it, not looking at herself but at something else, something beyond.

“Glad to be here?”

The brunette turns, and then she beams—and Sansa finds herself beaming back. She can’t help it. All of the heartache has faded away in the naked face of Margaery’s unmarked joy.

“You have no idea,” says Margaery. “No idea.” Then she grins. “I’ll show you the greenhouses after dinner. That is, if Dany doesn’t burn the house down.”

They end up sitting knee-to-knee in Margaery’s enormous bed, talking of nothing and everything in particular. Sansa is careful to avoid some topics, and to press others—there are some things she doesn’t think she can bear to say.

And that’s why she’s so surprised to hear Margaery speak her next words. “Are you happy, Sans?”

It is the last question that she would have thought to expect. Is she happy? _What is happiness?_ She wonders, and turns the question over and over in her heard as if it will give her clarity, sharpness. And then she takes a breath, because she knows the time is now.

“Can I tell you… tell you about her?”

At once, Margaery straightens—her expression goes soft, her lips part like petals. And her eyes are just so golden, almost yellow-brown like Sansa’s, gazing at her with an intent that is more compassion than curiosity.

“Yeah,” she says, softly. “Of course.” She reaches out to touch the other girl’s hand, so lightly.

“The whole thing—the whole thing that happened,” Sansa says, unsure of where to begin, “Makes me wonder. Who am I?” She whispers. “Do you know? Does anyone? Do I? Do I, and I just don’t want to be her anymore?”

“You’re Sansa Stark,” says Margaery, firmly. “You love dogs and lemon cakes. You like wolves and winter. You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met—but maybe the saddest, too—and you deserve only good things. You deserve only the things you want.” She pauses. “And you’re easy to love. Really, really easy to love.”

Sansa meets her eyes for the most fleeting of instants. “Am I?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

And that’s that.

“I met her in November,” says Sansa slowly. “She invited me to sit with her at lunch. She was the sweetest thing I’d ever met.” She pauses, as if to collect her thoughts. “Eyes like—like a mountain sky. The purest, brightest blue. Like the one outside my old house. Hair like honey, like gold. She was beautiful. She was so—so kind.” _Like you_.

She finds herself moving backwards on the bed, as if touching Margaery is too near, too close. The other girl doesn’t seem to be offended. There is an intent look on her face that Sansa has never seen before—a look that nearly breaks her heart. _But that was always my problem, wasn’t it? My heart was made for breaking._

“We became good friends,” she continues. “Best friends, really. And she introduced me to this group of boys—her friends, she told me—and they were the richest, the best-off—“ She shakes her head. “They were nice enough, but they made me uneasy. And I didn’t know why. Not until…” She shakes her head, again, unable to give the words life. “And after a while… I realized…” Her words drop off into nothingness. “I realized what I felt for her was different—it was more—“ She bites her lip. “You know.” It’s so hard to meet Margaery’s burning summery eyes. “And one day, when we were at her house, she put her arms around my neck and kissed me.” Sansa blinks. “I know it sounds stupid, but it was one of the happiest moments of my life.”

“No,” says Margaery at once, and Sansa is wondering if she’s remembering their kiss in the kitchen, their captured twin heartbeats. “It’s not stupid at all.”

Strangely, Sansa finds herself smiling. “And then we’d kiss… everywhere. In the alcoves at school, when no one was looking, in the aisles of stores, in the booths of restaurants when no one was around. She didn’t want to tell anyone. Neither did I.” Suddenly, she is speared by an acute, lacerating sadness. “I think I was ashamed.” “All I know was that… after I spoke to her, I felt like I’d just lost a fight. I’d still try and hold onto the sound of her laugh even after she’d stopped laughing.” She doesn’t say, of course, that with Margaery it is exactly the same. That it always has been—that she is afraid it always will.

“But I felt like I was losing something. I just didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know what _loss_ was.” Tears flood her eyes. “Not until Bran and Rickon.”

Margaery looks as if she wants to reach out and touch her, but does not.

“She was just the sweetest… the kindest… she called my eyes ‘cat eyes’,” says Sansa, with a rueful little laugh. And then she looks right at Margaery. “I think I like ‘wolf eyes’ better.” The other girl grins.

“But then, sometime in early spring…something changed.” Her voice is night sky-soft now. “And d’you know what? Arya _sensed_ it. It’s almost weird, how she _gets_ these things. Somehow, she knew. And one night, when we were in my room, she said the weirdest thing I’d ever heard her say. She was like, ‘You can fall for them, but don’t let them ruin you.’” Tears spring to Sansa’s eyes again at the sheer weight of the memory, but she doesn’t give them life. She refuses to cry: not here, not now. Not again. “I was too stupid to listen.

“They treated me differently,” she continues. “The boys, the girl. I was so desperate.. so desperate to be loved by her, that I brushed it off. My head was filled with memories: her holding my hand between our school skirts, her winding her ankle with mine underneath a table, kissing me until I couldn’t even breathe. I knew something had changed. I just didn’t want it to.” Her voice catches. “I wanted her to love me—I wanted it so badly, I swore to God I’d never ask for anything else in my life. Just one moment, for her to be absolutely mine.

“And even when she was sharp with me—even when her eyes seemed to go from blue to black—she was never anything less than beautiful. Ever.” She doesn’t even realize that her voice is shaking, very faintly. “I still wanted to get to know her better. Even though I knew—knew she’d leave just like the rest of them.” She bites her lip so hard it draws blood. “I just didn’t know how bad it would get.

“I set myself up to be hurt. And the worst part was—I knew it.” Sansa twists her fingers together, anxiously. “And then, after two months of her being cruel, unkind, it happened.” She lets out a breath as if it’s the first one she’s taken for hours. “They did what they wanted to do.”

And that’s when it all comes crashing down.

“She _hates_ me,” Sansa whispers, and at that very moment she’s never felt more broken apart in her life. It’s as if she’s reliving it all over again, so vivid against the blackness of her eyelids: the pretty coy boys, the beautiful girl, the long-playing video. “And I don’t even know—“ She tries not to let her voice tremble. “—I don’t even know what I did.”

“No one,” says Margaery, so firm again, so unsurprised, “No one could ever _hate_ you—“

But Sansa yanks away from her waiting arms, almost violently; this is the one thing she can precisely not believe. Wasn’t Margaery _listening_? Didn’t she see—didn’t she see that you wouldn’t do something cruel unless you hated someone, hated them absolutely and completely, without a shred of remorse? And why, she wanted to know—why did it hurt so badly, all of this time later, when she should’ve gotten better, should’ve forgotten them, should’ve moved on? Why?

Why does she still dream about that rare, strange girl, all golden smiles and sun-lit eyes, impossible sweetness and formidable wit, ducking her head low into Sansa’s shoulder, laughing, smelling of something low, something low and cool? Why does she still recall, so brilliantly, the rolling back of her clothing against the moist April air—the sting of summer on her skin, a soft mouth pressing on her stomach, vodka warm in her belly and her head heavy from the weight of it? Why does the shame of that day in the cafeteria still make her recoil—it was so far away, so long ago, and somehow she still feels the press of fingertips into the ridge of her spine, the heat of disbelieving laughter, the weight of all those rigid, smiling stares?

“Sansa,” Margaery is whispering, and she’s crawling on hands and knees across the bed to the other girl, eyes guileless and meaningful as a child’s. “Sansa—you need to talk to someone about this; you need to. Maybe you loved her—them—maybe you didn’t—but it doesn’t matter, it’s over, you have to let go—“

Sansa stares at her blankly. “I didn’t even tell you—I didn’t even tell you what they did—“ She pauses, as if gathering her memories, shakes her head. “Not what they did. What they had me—“

“No,” says Margaery, so softly, and she reaches for Sansa now—in the space between them there hovers a million unasked questions, a million unspoken lies. But Sansa can’t summon the strength for another. She finds herself utterly unable to speak another mistruth. Margaery is smiling, but it’s so sad, so sweet, that Sansa feels her heart turn. “I know you didn’t tell me. But I think I know.”

But Sansa is wary. “They got me drunk—high—I can’t remember. And then they told me—oh God, Margaery, I can’t even admit it to you.” _I can’t even admit it to myself._ “I know—I know it was revenge. I just don’t know what for.”

“It’s okay.” It’s a soft, crooning way with which Margaery speaks now, as if she’s a mother, or perhaps a lover. Sansa can’t even tell the difference anymore. “You don’t have to admit it to me. It’s okay, Sansa. I swear to God—it’s okay.”

“What do you think?” Sansa asks. Her voice is trembling now, but she can’t help it. “Do you think I loved her?”

“I don’t think it matters if you loved her,” whispers Margaery, curling the half-moons of her nails into Sansa’s palms, so hard it almost hurts. “I just think it matters that you thought you did.”

Sansa’s throat aches. “You don’t understand. I thought I’d never—I thought I’d never feel like that again—that all-consuming—ache—the feeling like I was drowning in something sweeter than anything I’d ever known I could feel. And then I came here, and—“ _And then I met you._

Whatever she’s feeling, Margaery can see it in her eyes, and in one swift movement the older girl has embraced her, folded her in her arms. At first Sansa struggles, even though Margaery no longer looks like that honey-hued girl from California, even though Margaery smells of roses and the other girl smelled like jasmine—but Margaery’s thin arms bely her strength, and soon they are rocking together, Sansa’s head pillowed against Margaery’s shoulder, tangled up together in the way that still sets Sansa’s heart to pounding, even after all this time. It makes her feel weak, but for once she’s not ashamed.

“Sometimes,” Margaery whispers into Sansa’s hair, in a rare display of vulnerability, “I think we were all just born to be broken.” Tears flood Sansa’s eyes, because she finds she can’t argue with that. She can’t argue with that at all.

“She’s so long gone,” she whispers. “So why can’t I let it go?”

“Because you have the biggest, strangest, loveliest heart I’ve ever seen,” Margaery murmurs. “That’s why.”

“I still remember the night before they got me drunk and high,” Sansa whispers into the other girl’s hair. “We walked to this lake, and just stood there for hours. I remember that she was—kind, again. I remember her holding my hand. But when she told me good-night… it just felt, for some reason, like good-bye.

“I know I made it through California,” she says slowly. ‘But sometimes I wonder which parts of me survived.”

She doesn’t know when it changes. One moment they are inches apart, and then the inches have been swallowed, and they are pressed together, woven like twins. Margaery’s shoulder is wet with tears and Sansa is surprised—shocked—to hear the older girl sniffle, just slightly, as if she too is trying not to cry. Almost as if she understands. Sansa wonders if she does.

“What was her name?” Margaery’s voice is just so soft now, maybe the softest thing Sansa has ever heard.

“Tyene,” she replies without hesitation, just as gently, as if saying the word aloud might break her still-fragile heart all over again. Maybe it will.

“Her name was Tyene.”

 

 

* * *

 

 


	30. ta'aburnee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ta'aburnee** : you bury me.

 

 

 

The days at Highgarden pass like a dream.

The winter is warm here, the mild snows all but melted away—and little tender blossoms open up their faces to the sun in their wake, blue-red-white-gold-silver. Sansa has never seen the south; at least, she has never seen the south like this. Dark fragrant bouquets in every dim corner (which are, really, the only respite from the warmth), the little greenhouses reflecting the shine of the sun, the open terraces so risky that one wrong step might send you tumbling down, down into the flowerbeds beneath.

Soon she comes to learn it as well as the palm of her hand, and she can tell that Margaery is absurdly proud of this, as she comes near and ducks her head into Sansa’s shoulder, a teasing smile on her face.

“You like it, wolf girl?” She murmurs with a warm grin, before wrapping an arm around Sansa’s waist and drawing her closer. Sansa’s blood stacattos in her veins; she can smell Margaery’s shampoo, the delicate traces of her rose-and-vanilla perfume. She’d once read that smell is the strongest scent in memory; it seems true, it must be true, because she can never smell a rose without thinking of Margaery Tyrell.

“You’re wearing my perfume,” she says instead, and Margaery laughs.

“Well, aren’t you wearing mine?”

Sansa nods, a little sheepishly.

“Then it’s perfect,” says Margaery, and then, impulsively, inexplicably, pulls Sansa to her into a breathless hug.

Sansa isn’t sure if she can breathe; she isn’t sure if she should breathe. All she knows is that the warm slim form of Margaery wrapped around her is the sweetest thing she’s ever felt: sweeter than candied sugar, sweeter than a kiss on the mouth. They are almost of a height; Sansa can feel the caught heartbeats between them, Margaery’s just a little lower than Sansa’s, and the wisp of her autumn-brown hair against Sansa’s throat. The other girl buries her head into the space between neck and shoulder and for a moment Sansa’s heart stops beating entirely.

“You’re everything to me, wolf girl,” says Margaery softly, so softly Sansa isn’t even sure she heard it, and even though she doesn’t know if this is merely a vestige of Margaery’s good mood or if she truly means it, she finds that it doesn’t matter. It makes her mouth dry and her hands clammy all the same, as she reaches up to brush away a lock of the other girl’s sunny-brown hair.

 _It’s a little like being in love_ , Sansa thinks, uncertain of what to name it, or if it should be named at all. _It’s a little like waking up clean and bright and new, all over again._

She wants to know every part of the other girl: every stowed-away secret, every hidden niche and every unspoken shadow. But she can’t, not now, and so she settles for clinging to her almost as if drowning, as if the melting snow around them is a salt sea and Margaery the life vest that keeps her above the waves. They stand like that for ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds—until at last Margaery pulls away with an impish smile, stretching wide those perfect broad cheekbones, and laughs.

“You’re—“ Why is she always so incredibly poorly-spoken around the Tyrell girl? “You’re everything to me, too, you know.”

Margaery’s mouth forms a little ‘o’; clearly she had not been expecting reciprocation. For a moment her eyes take on a wary gleam—and then they are smiling again, crinkling sweetly at the edges, and she flashes a glimpse of those little foxlike teeth.

“Then we’re perfect together,” she says, so boldly, more boldly than Sansa would have dared. But Sansa can’t bring herself to deny it, with or without Dany beside her. She laces her fingers with Margaery, leans in to kiss her cheek, a sweet apology—but Margaery turns her face at the last moment, by accident or not, and they end up kissing full on the lips.

Sansa pulls back, looking as very shocked as she is; but Margaery is holding onto her arm, so she can’t flee far.

“I know you’re not my girlfriend,” Margaery says, softly, but still with that radiant glow. “But Sansa Stark, don’t forget that you have always been mine.”

It is the opposite of what she’d said in the snow: then, she’d been lost, bereft, alone. But perhaps Highgarden awoke something in her. Perhaps the spring-warm air thawed something deep inside. A little frisson of shock ripples throughout Sansa’s body at the words, as if she isn’t quite hearing them. Could she mean them? Why would she say them, if she didn’t? Sansa’s mouth is dry and her hands are wet; and Margaery is already spinning away in her short spring dress, riding boots mucky from the melting snows and raw young earth, as she strides away with the grace of any queen.

And Sansa finds herself touching her own mouth, smiling so widely that her cheeks ache, tracing the lips that Margaery marked and kissed and claimed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s later that night, the last one before they have to head back home, and Sansa and Dany are on the blonde girl’s bed, sitting so close that their bodies are pressed together, chest-to-chest and waist-to-waist. Sansa has one leg hanging off the bed and the other underneath her; Dany is stroking the inside of her thigh, eliciting little shocks of pleasure that resonate throughout her entire body.

They must have been kissing for ten or twenty minutes, before suddenly Sansa abruptly pulls away.

“Margaery kissed me today,” she blurts out, rather ungracefully. But what else can she say?

She’s expecting rage; she’s seen it on her girlfriend a few times now, and it’s almost a frightening sight. But she’s never seen it directed at her. And indeed, Dany’s face goes cool—almost, strangely, understanding. _Is it because she cares for Margaery as much as I do?_

“You’re the one, then,” the other girl says, softly, at last. “The one she loves.”

Sansa is helpless. What can she say but the truth? She’s had her fair share of lies; it’s time for something different. It’s time for what’s real.

“Yes,” she says, after taking in a sharp, desperate breath. “I’m the one she loves.”

“And do you…”

“Do I what?” She’s simply biding her time; that’s evident to both of them; but oh, what can she _say?_

“Do you love her?” Dany’s face is masked in the soft nocturnal light falling through the high windows. She looks carved from ivory and bone: that soft fall of long white-blonde hair, glittering with the tiny braids, and that sweet full mouth, and the curves of her cheeks that gleam like water in the spill of the moon. She is, still, the most beautiful girl Sansa has ever seen. _More beautiful than Margaery, even_ , she admits, though the admission feels oddly like a betrayal.

“I’ve always loved her,” she says suddenly, blurting it out again and staining the pristine silence between them. For a moment, Dany goes very still. And for that moment, Sansa thinks she’s summoned that incredible rage.

But it passes; the girl’s shoulders slump, and to Sansa’s acute, aching realization, she looks simply sad. “Ah,” says Dany, with a slight shrug of her rounded shoulders. “I should’ve seen that, too.” Her almost-violet eyes narrow. “How do you and Margaery get so much past me, Sansa Stark?”

“Because you’re blinded by love,” Sansa says, again without thinking—she simply doesn’t think it through at all. Dany has never said she’s loved her. Oh, Sansa loves Dany, even if she is not _in love_ with her; that’s undeniable. The fact that she’s fought it tooth and nail has merely made it all the more profound. But she feels foolish for even feeling it; she’s known the other girl for only the duration of a few months, and is that enough time to bind your heart with another’s? Is it enough space for such emotion to blossom between the cracks? An apology teeteers on the tip of her tongue with the fragility of any unsaid word; but she says nothing. Oddly stubborn now, she says nothing.

To her shock, Dany smiles.

“Maybe,” she admits. “Maybe that’s it.” And then she leans in and kisses Sansa so hard, but Sansa can feel that she’s still smiling, and that makes her smile too. She can sense Dany’s shoulders straighten, her chin lift, return to the imperious girl that Sansa knows and adores. Other than Margaery, Dany is the only person she knows who can seem both so fragile and so strong. Besides Dany, she feels purified by heat, by fire; perhaps besides Margaery she feels cleansed by sea, that ocean that the other girl knelt in, bold as any sea-nymph. They are opposites, so perfect when they come together, and sometimes Sansa doesn’t even want to step between them. Sometimes she doesn’t dare.

Suddenly, Sansa pulls away. “You love her, too.” It is sparked by regret, by the hot twist of guilt in the very pit of her stomach—she needs her to admit it. She needs Dany to admit it, too.

“I do,” says Dany, in a hushed, pressed sort of voice, as if this was not the conversation she’d prefer to be having right now. “I do love her. I think… I think I always have.”

Sansa’s heart squeezes tight. “How do you love her?”

Dany’s eyes are calm, cool as a midwinter lake when she continues. “Like I was in pieces and she put me back together again. Like I was lost and she found me. Like I was stumbling around in the dark with no light, and she appeared like this brilliant shining thing.” She laughs shortly, shakes her head. “It all sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

But Sansa’s mouth is dry, because it doesn’t sound ridiculous at all to her. Once she’d truly and honestly believed that love only existed in books. Oh, she thinks now, how wrong she was.

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous to me,” she says, and is conscious of how breathy, how low, her voice sounds as she speaks the words. But it’s because it’s true.

“It’s funny,” Dany continues, as if she hadn’t heard Sansa speak at all, “It’s funny. People always think I’m so brave, so fearless—but so is she. When I was a wreck she pulled me to her and never let go. She never asked any questions. She can be irritatingly vague, and intentionally obtuse, but you can’t say she isn’t kind.” She pauses. “Maybe it’s not always the purest kindness, the most selfless kindness, but it’s kindness all the same. And with you…” She lifts her almost-violet eyes to Sansa, and is for a moment silent.

“What?” Sansa’s voice is just the softest thing. “What is it?”

“With you, it is selfless. It is pure. She loves you just for the sake of loving you.”

Sansa’s heart constricts. “How do you know?” She presses the other girl, an insistent child. “How are you so sure?”

“It’s the way she looks at you,” says Dany softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair out of Sansa’s eyes, fingertips skimming her cheek. “Like you were the very last person on earth.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sansa, stupidly.

Something in Dany flashes. “Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize because you love someone. Never do that.”

For a long while, Sansa says nothing—and then she timidly reaches out, interlaces their fingers. “What does this all mean, Dany?” _Why does my heart always make things so incredibly complicated?_

She’s so certain, so very sure that the blonde girl will have an answer, a firm assurance, the same as she always does. But the look on Dany’s face is uncertain, a mask of unease, and it makes something inside of Sansa go still. “Sansa… I don’t know. It seems like everything I thought I knew, I didn’t know at all, and everything I thought I was in the dark about, I ended up seeing so clearly. I don’t know.” She shakes her head once, as if to clear it. “I just don’t know.”

Sansa has the impression of being tangled in a web, captured by something she cannot see nor understand. _You’re setting yourself up to be hurt_ , a little voice inside of her whispers, that same voice that warned her of Tyene’s duplicity, how that day in the cafeteria her hands shook as she carried her tray—the other girl’s eyes so dark blue they looked black from across the stony room. How she neither smiled nor waved, and Sansa had been washed in a despair so fierce it drowned her in silence. That was when she’d known—that was when she’d known it was over, that her life was about to come crashing down around her shoulders and there was nothing, nothing, that she could do to stop it.

“Sansa?” Dany’s fingers are soft, insistent, turning her chin gently. “What is it?”

“It was a memory,” Sansa whispers, exhaling as if it was the first time she’d done so in hours. “It was nothing. Just a memory.”

 _Just a memory._ As if, Sansa thinks sadly, there was any such thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes she still dreams of her, oddly enough, long untangled hair and sunlit blue eyes, dressed always for the warmth. In her dreams, she’s kind again. In her dreams Tyene is almost always laughing.

But there had always been something poison-sweet about her, hadn’t there? Sansa may not know what love is, but she knows what it’s _not_ ; and Tyene never loved Sansa, not in the way Sansa loved her. Her love had been hopeless, endless, a tidal wave that swelled and pulled her down into the skyless black. It had been a comet shot to earth, a fleeting shooting star; Sansa was drowning before she even realized that no one had ever taught her how to swim.

She’d begun to notice all the little things about the other girl, all the little inconsequential details that make up a person. The sound she made before she laughed; the glitter of her smile; the high protrusion of her collarbones and the almost childlike sweetness of her voice. All the things that didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter—and yet, they did. They mattered more than anything.

That was the beginning of her drowning. When she realized she’d hang around the other girl’s classroom doors just to catch a glimpse of that light-caught smile; when she’d wait, patiently, in the cafeteria for Tyene to join her and make her head go dizzy in so many ways Sansa could barely see straight. When the other girl took her hand in the hallways and squeezed it, so briefly—when they’d curl together in her great bed and listen to the sounds of the ocean through the arched high window, pristine in their silence, the waves breaking just like a heart.

And even now, she wonders why. Why it had to be her—why it had to end like it did—why Tyene’s blue eyes could go so snake-hard. Why Bran and Rickon had to die. They were two separate entities, to be sure, but connected all the same; and Sansa doesn’t understand, is sure she never will. Why cruelty and shame and guilt overpower goodness every single time; why every kindness in this world is a flickering light going to darkness in an empty room. Why each good thing she’s ever seen, she feels like she’s found again in Margaery and Dany; why, when things turn black, she looks to them as gazers look towards the stars.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa and Margaery are sitting on the Tyrell girl’s bed again, Margaery twisting the chain of the crucifix in her fingers. Their knees brush; their foreheads are almost brushing, too. Sansa is staring down at the necklace, wondering back to the day she’d given it to her, the way Margaery’s eyes had gone all wide and solemn in the darkness. How she wears it even though she doesn’t believe in God.

I believe in you, she’d said, and Sansa had found the words almost impossible to comprehend. Margaery Tyrell, the little queen of Providence Academy, so vulnerable and aching before her. At the time, Sansa hadn’t understood it.

She thinks she understands now.

“Dany knows,” says Sansa, softly. “I couldn’t hide it from her. She knows that you love me. And that I—“ Here she pauses, almost afraid to say the words. “—that I love you, too.”

Margaery’s eyes widen, go full and open like one of the greenhouse flowers blossoming to the sun. “Was she angry?”

Sansa shakes her head, remembering the powerful strangeness of it all. “No. Weirdly, she wasn’t. She just said… she should have known.” She bites her lip, hard. “She said that you look at me like I’m the last person on earth.”

Margaery blinks; the low lights in the room have darkened her eyes, her hair. She looks like some fragile forest creature. “Do I?” She asks, almost wonderingly, as if finally recognizing something about herself that she hadn’t before. “Do I, really?” She shakes her head with a rueful little smile, loose curls falling all about her shoulders. “I guess you turn me into someone else, wolf girl.”

“Someone else?”

“Someone better.” This is such an echo of what Dany had said before that Sansa doesn’t know how to respond. “You know,” she adds, as if in a dreamy afterthought, “When I was little, I did believe in God. My family is Roman Catholic, and we used to go to church every Sunday—well, everyone but Grandmother. Whenever I felt lost, I’d just think of God.” She pauses, a few pearly teeth worrying her lower lip. “And now, I guess I think of you.”

Sansa doesn’t know how to identify how she feels in that moment; she just knows she feels strangely old, and heavy, and sad—but also oddly light, as if nothing in the world exists except for them, and the words that leave their lips.

She reaches out to touch the chain of the necklace, a billion unspoken things between them. Sansa wants to kiss her; she wants to touch her; she wants to say what she means without words, as she’d done that night in the movie theater. Speaking is so much easier, she thinks, when you don’t have to say a thing.

In the dim light she meets Margaery’s eyes, and sees her own guilt and self-recrimination reflected in them. Suddenly exhausted, Sansa closes her eyes, leans forward and presses her forehead against Margaery’s, so close that their faces nearly brush, chain twisted between them. She breathes slowly, in and out, to calm the rapid beating of her heart. She wants to kiss her. She knows she won’t.

Margaery slows her own breathing until their chests rise and fall in careful tandem, as if aware of how fragile what they hold between them truly is, how glasslike, how apt to shatter. Neither one of them want to hurt Dany—and Margaery is stubborn, more stubborn than Sansa would have expected, from seeing her that first day of school. As for Sansa, well—she’s simply confused, perplexed by the enormity of being wanted by both of these remarkable girls, a concept so huge and powerful that she fumbles with it and drops it altogether. In the end she reaches out to stroke Margaery’s hands, gently, the one concession she’ll allow herself. And when she looks back up, into Margaery’s light-caught face, she sees a dreamy and eerie expression there, half-pleasure, half-pain.

 _I don’t want to hurt either of them,_ she thinks, with a sick squeezing feeling in her chest. But Margaery… It’s as if she’s stifling down something she knows perfectly well about herself, suffocating the emotion, trapping it in a glass bottle and throwing it out to some nameless sea.

 _I let her get too close._ Sansa swallows, reaches up to touch Margaery’s hair with exquisite restraint. And then she drops her hand again, drawing away, the closeness between them suddenly too much.

Margaery pulls back too, something a little sad on her face, an emotion that had gone previously unrecognized but which Sansa now understands completely: regret. Regret, that she hadn’t taken Sansa when she could have; regret, that they have to steal moments like thieves, just to touch hands or bow their heads together over the chain of an old crucifix. They sit there, trapped by the weight of one another’s eyes, and Sansa is waiting for something, anything—a witty remark, a sweet compliment, a comforting assurance. But there’s nothing. Margaery is silent, as if she’s thinking very hard about a question she posed to herself, a question no one can possibly answer.

Sometimes, it feels as though she misses Margaery the most when they’re together.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It’s later that night, when she’s creeping past Margaery’s bedroom door, that she hears it. She hears them.

“…because it’s not _fair_ ,” Margaery is saying passionately, as passionately as Sansa has ever heard her. “It’s not fair that you’re making her hold on, when you haven’t even let go.” There is a pain so brilliant in her voice that it makes something sharp catch in Sansa’s chest.

Dany’s voice: lower, placating but stern, imperious in the way only she can be. But Margaery, apparently, is not to be consoled.

“And that’s not fair,” she hisses, causes Sansa to freeze in place, knowing without the slightest doubt that they’re talking about her. “You’re going to break her heart—“

“Just like you broke hers?” Dany’s voice is pure as a clarion bell, and it echoes with a peculiar coldness. Nothing that Sansa has ever heard from her; and suddenly Sansa’s heart is in her throat, struck through with the clarity of the truth. _Just like you broke hers._ Well, it wasn’t a lie, was it? She can feel her throat closing up, her—

“And now I want to make it better,” says Margaery, pleading, the strangest sound in her voice: the sound of regret. “You’re not over Drogo; don’t pretend you are, you aren’t fooling anyone, you aren’t—“

“You want me to break up with her.”

“I don’t know what I want,” says Margaery, her voice so low, so impossibly quiet, that Sansa can barely hear it. “All I know is—look, Dany, I tried to bury this, again and again and again, and every time she comes back. Every time it’s new all over again.” She’s choking over her own unshed tears. Margaery won’t cry; Sansa knows it, even as she steps closer, presses her ear hesitantly to the door. No, she won’t cry. She’s too proud for that. “Look. Do you know what Alla said to me, the other day? She said, ‘I hope one day I can love someone the way you love her.’” And then Margaery’s voice absolutely breaks. “She saw right through everything—they all do—and I can’t bother to hide it anymore, Dany, it’s killing me, it’s like an arrow straight to my heart—“

Suddenly, her voice drops to a whisper. “And I am so, so sorry.”

“You love us both,” says Dany slowly, “But she has your heart.” It’s as if she’s finally realizing something she’s been wondering for a long, long time.

“I could give her all of me,” says Margaery softly, and something in Sansa seizes, a heart-shock of recognition and remorse: the feeling that, if only for an instant, you could have what could never be yours. “Can you say the same?”

There is nothing but silence between them.

“I’m broken into a dozen little pieces, right now,” says Dany with a short laugh, a laugh with no merriment and even less humor. “All I can do is trust you, trust both of you… but why does that mean we have to give ourselves all away?” Her voice remains steady. “Why is it always so hard?”

“That’s love, Dany,” says Margaery, so gently, that soft tone of voice she reserves for the Targaryen girl, and the Targaryen girl alone. “You know, I had this wild dream—all three of us—but then the dream faded, and I can’t explain it. You can never explain a dream.” She pauses, clearly frustrated. “I never understood that. Why can’t you explain a dream?”

“Because it’s your heart speaking to you,” says Dany frankly, and Sansa inhales a little, rug soft against her bare feet and the wood of the door firm against her ear. “A language no one else understands.” She hears one of them scuffing their boot against the wood floor: Dany.

“You’ll hurt her.”

“You already have,” said Dany, not accusative but merely stating a fact, a fact that Sansa can’t deny. But oh, why does she long for the impossibility of Margaery’s arms when she knows they are no protection from the outside world? Why does she try and hold onto the sound of her laugh even after she’s stopped laughing? Why—why—did this have to happen to her, to her perfectly acceptable life, sports and school and maybe a boy in between? Why, why did she have to meet Margaery Tyrell?

And yet she knows, at once, that she’d do it all over again. She’d live a dozen lives of misery just to glance into those honeyed eyes, endure a thousand cruel lashing words just to taste the sweetness of her mouth. They all said that she’d been changed—Elinor and Alla and Jeyne—but how? So she’s been changed. But at what price? At what price is this? So she’s a better person than she was before. She is miserable and in love with with a girl too proud to relinquish herself to weakness. She’s in love with Margaery Tyrell.

It sends a cold shudder throughout her body, as if she’s back up north in that New England winter, drifting through the snowy haze. For one second, she wants the other girl to be absolutely hers. For just one second. It will be enough—she’ll make it be enough.

“The three of us,” Dany is saying, slowly, “What did you mean, before?”

“I don’t know,” says Margaery, and for one horrible moment Sansa is afraid she will begin to cry. She doesn’t. “I just thought—the three of us—all those feelings… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe I never kissed you,” Dany says, so softly.

“Neither can I,” Margaery responds, and there’s an edge to her voice now, a serrated blade. A sharpness to cover the hurt. “Maybe it was because of Drogo. Maybe it was something else.” She pauses. “Just let her go. I swear to God, Dany, I’ll never ask anything of you ever again—this is all I’ve ever wanted.” _All I’ve ever wanted._ The pain in Sansa's chest is so great she can barely breathe. _  
_

Another interminable silence, punctured only by the rasps of Margaery’s breathing. Sansa stands by the door drowning, drowning in regret and grief and something that feels, faintly, like hope. Some strange flame has been sparked in her chest, kindled by Margaery’s desperation, her fierceness, and Dany’s unusual restraint. She can imagine the two of them standing at the edge of Margaery’s bed, fingers interlaced, a powerful human admission of love in Margaery’s eyes and the utter pain in Dany’s. Sansa doesn’t know who Drogo is. And at the moment, she doesn’t really care.

“You’re the only person in the world I would do this for,” says Dany suddenly, fiercely, into the silence. “You know that, right?” And Margaery makes a sound that’s a half-laugh, half-sob.

“So,” says Dany, in just a slightly softer voice, “I won’t hold on anymore. Because God, Margaery, it sounds so stupid—but I hate seeing you like this. Maybe because I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I’ve never felt like this before,” says Margaery, numbly, and laughs a little, without any trace of happiness in it: that sweet, sugar-spun laugh.

“If I loved you just a tiny bit less,” Dany murmurs, “I wouldn’t be doing this. You know that, right?” And Sansa can imagine Margaery’s answering nod. “But I know you love her. I know you do—maybe from that first time you saw her, you did.”

Sansa’s throat is dry; the world is spinning in a carousel of dread and thrill and color.

“I saw her in homeroom,” Margaery is whispering, and Sansa is straining against the door, straining to hear all that is spoken and unspoken at once. “Just sitting there with her little bag, and her hair all down her shoulders, and I—“ Her voice shudders like cold bones, but that’s all. “I brushed the hair from her face, and she was practically trembling, and it was just like—it was just like there was no advance warning. Just a shot to the chest. Everything changed, just like that.

“Have you ever felt like that?” She demands of Dany suddenly, all her old composure returned in a flash of blinding awareness. “Did you feel that for Drogo? For Joffrey?”

“No,” says Dany, softly, voice just the gentlest thing now: the voice of a mother. “No, I haven’t.”

“So kiss me, Dany,” says Margaery, all boldness and resolve, the Tyrell girl that Sansa knows and adores and loves. “Kiss me, just in case you’ll never get another chance.”

And then, just minutes later, no more words spoken between them—the bedroom door is being swung open, and Sansa is left standing there like a startled deer, all widened gaze and darkened eyes. Dany looks at her for a single moment and she wonders if this is what it’s like, for a heart to break—and then the dragon girl is leaning in, kissing her firmly, close-mouthed, but fiercely all the same, and Sansa feels her knees go weak, her bones turn to water. Then she’s gone.

Sansa stares into the bedroom, at where Margaery is curled up on the oversized bed, wide doe eyes staring right at Sansa. There is only a languid deep sea outside of the windows: black as pitch, vestment black, crow black. And then there’s Margaery, dressed in a beautiful short skirt and black blouse, the laughter that Sansa had heard earlier no longer ringing off her lips. There’s only a question in her light-flecked eyes: a question Sansa isn’t sure she can answer.

“Did you kiss her?” Sansa askes, stupidly, when the quiet is all but unbearable.

Margaery nods. And then she extends her arms—and Sansa has no choice really, with Margaery she’s never had a choice—and she’s moving towards her, until she’s cradled in Margaery’s embrace, leaning down into her shoulder, rocking in her hold.

“Come up here,” says Margaery, and Sansa obeys. They drew their knees together and say nothing, at least until;

“Thank you.”

Sansa lifts her eyes to Margaery’s: shaded in the dimness of the room, the only light pooling around Margaery’s shoulders like some kind of crown. “Thank you for what?”

“For making me grow up in ways I never thought I’d have to,” says Margaery softly, and in an instant, Sansa sees: they no longer need words. They have everything they need in their fingers, their hands and their mouths and their tongues, the heated press of skin against skin. They both know it, but neither is brave enough to make the critical first move, brush away a silken strand of hair, press down on a warm thigh, because both know that after this, nothing will ever be the same again.

“Margaery—“

“Shh,” says the older girl, taking Sansa’s face gently in her hands, fingertips skimming across skin. “Shh.” Each touch touch leaves a trail of warmth in its wake, so heated that Sansa feels she might burn up from the mere sensation. She can feel herself flush, but she does as Margaery says, and doesn’t say a word.

“What’s the point in words now?” Margaery whispers, an echo of the sad, regretful words Sansa had thought to herself just moments ago. “I knew it was you all along.”

A beautiful shiver creeps up Sansa’s spine, leaves her cold in the sweet warmth of Margaery’s childlike bedroom. Beneath them, the bedspread is etched with roses, peonies, day lilies. Marks of Highgarden. But all Sansa can see is the wide flickering of Margaery’s eyes, the trembling jump of her throat, the white skin that Sansa can remember is so soft, so—

And then Margaery is kissing her, swallowing up all the unspoken words between them, and Sansa’s world goes back from the foreign-yet-familiar pleasure of it, the parting of their lips and the darting of Margaery’s tongue. There’s nothing left; nothing left but a pair of girls who have left this for far too long, their kisses turning from declarations of affection to affirmations of need. Sansa is starving, suddenly, for the silken brush of the other girl’s skin, the downy fall of her russet hair, and she hopes—she hopes—that Margaery will give it to her, even if this is just a fluke, another mistake where the Tyrell girl will wake up the next morning and tell her that nothing, nothing has changed.

But then their fingers are at one another’s blouses, Sansa fumbling with the buttons as Margaery’s mouth goes to her throat and she is instantly dizzy, almost dumb with desire. It is the past repeating itself, yet Sansa prays it isn’t; she prays that when Margaery’s eyes open it will be with that same strange light, that reassuring brown-gold glow struck through with brightness, a whisper of a promise that this time, she will keep.

“I love you,” Sansa whispers, voice roughened and serrated by need. She finds Margaery’s mouth again and bites her lower lip, but the older girl just pulls away, something almost like a laugh leaving her lips.

“It took us this long?” She asks, unclasping the last of Sansa’s buttons and sliding the blouse from her shoulders. And then Sansa sees she’s not laughing—she’s almost crying—as if the weight of it, the burden of carrying this around for so long, by herself, all alone, is being lifted from those slim shoulders as she speaks the words. “It took us this long to figure all of this out?”

“I’m not smart about love,” Sansa whispers, pressing her forehead to Margaery’s, the silken wind from the open window cool on her bare skin.

“Neither am I,” Margaery confesses. “Or at least, I’m not smart about you.”

And then both of their blouses are off, discarded like rags across the great bed, and they’re pressing together like they’d never been apart. Images like photographs are flashing through Sansa’s memory, like polaroids laid across the floor: the other girl’s silken wings of shoulder blades, her downy eyes, her hands—warm, green-veined, soft. Sansa scrapes across Margaery’s breast with hungry fingers, trailing a thumb over the nipple; the other girl sighs, and it gives Sansa a horrible nagging ache in her heart and her legs, almost a question that demands an answer.

Margaery presses a hand between Sansa’s breasts and pushes her back, against the bed—Sansa lets out a tiny yelp of surprise but doesn’t protest, as Margaery prowls over her, kisses her face and her neck and her breasts, sucking at the tender skin there. And then her hand is between Sansa’s legs, tugging down her lacy underwear, all the way down to the knees. When she rolls back Sansa’s skirt there is a brief moment of what could only be described as panic—a cafeteria, a honey-hued girl from California, a warm mouth on her stomach and her head heavy from vodka—but no, this time it’s only Margaery, sweet as she kisses Sansa’s belly and sinks lower and lower yet.

It’s the same as the first time, only it isn’t—somehow it’s better, truer, honest and careful instead of desperate and hot and guilty. When it’s done Sansa’s breathing is fluttery and she’s poised at Margaery’s knee, flushed and suddenly too-warm in the airy winter night, their clothes scattered helplessly around them.

Margaery enfolds the younger girl in her arms and they lay back, bare on top of the coverlet, the only chill a faint wind coming from the half-opened windows. Sansa’s eyes are slowly closing, but when Margaery speaks, they open again, slowly, a breaking of waves against an ivory shore.

“What did you say?” She asks, sleepily, nestled against Margaery’s breast.

“I said,” Margaery whispers, “Every day since I met you, it’s been clawing away at me.”

Sansa is silent for a few moments. And then;

“You don’t have to feel that way anymore. I’m _here_ , Margaery. I’m right here.”

Margaery takes in a shuddery little breath, and it takes Sansa a moment to realize that the other girl is at the edge of tears. Tears of release, she knows. Tears not of bitterness, but of relief.

“All that time,” Sansa whispers.

“All that time,” Margaery replies, in a voice just as soft, interlacing their fingers. “And it was worth it, wasn’t it? If I had to live my life perfectly happy never knowing you or going through this hell a dozen times I know what I’d choose. I’d—“

“I know,” Sansa murmurs, and reaches up to kiss the ridge of Margaery’s satiny collarbone. “I know.”

And she does.

“What about Dany?” She whispers, finally.

Margaery’s fingers tighten around hers. “We’ll work it out. We’ll make it right. I promise, Sans, we’ll make this all right.”

And though Sansa knows better than to believe in promises, she finds herself weakening to Margaery’s anyway, as she always had, as she always does. Besides, all that matters right now—selfishly—is the two of them, curled up in their vulnerability on the great bed, their breath rising and falling in uneven tandem underneath the descending dark.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  



	31. away

 

 

 

 

This is what she sees right now:

A New England winter, bathed in snow and washed in wind, black ice underfoot and a pale sky above, as pale as her own skin. The sun offers more cold than warmth, and the gates of Providence are open to the Lexuses and the BMWs, the Audis and the Lotuses, the occasional clunker owned by a girl studying there on scholarship. And the girls are everywhere, smoothing down their school skirts when a burst of wind canopies them open, wrapped in beautiful pea coats and downy winter jackets. In the middle of it all stands Sansa, waiting for Margaery, except that suddenly a hand is grasping hers and she’s turning into the other girl’s smile, that flash of little foxlike teeth.

“Can I kiss you?” Margaery’s curls are wind-tossed, wild, and there’s high color in her cheeks. Sansa’s heart squeezes.

“There might be teachers around,” she replies, always the shy one, and ducks in to kiss the other girl’s cheek anyhow. She leaves a petal-mark of pale pink lipstick; lipstick isn’t allowed at Providence, but Margaery has always worn it anyhow, and the habit has worn off on Sansa. It looks as if she’s trying to leave her mark on Margaery’s perfect flushed skin.

By this time, all of them must know—the entire school, from the way Margaery and Sansa hold hands in the hallways, kiss in the alcoves when (they think) no one else is looking, spend every fleeting moment in the other’s presence. And, strangely, Sansa doesn’t care anymore. Let them talk. Let them whisper. She has Margaery—she has _Margaery_ —and that’s all that matters, because she loved her when she barely knew the other girl, when Margaery was just a stranger and Sansa a sad lost thing in an enormous world too big for the likes of her. Margaery had swooped down and rescued the little vanished ghost, molded her into something almost as sweet and bold and sure as she is. Almost.

The fact that the world turns when the other girl isn’t around is hard to cope with. Sansa has come to adore the surprise on other girls’ faces when Margaery tells them, firmly, “she’s with me.” The look on other people’s faces when Margaery shoots her a secret smile makes her heart ache. The discovery that the world stretches and expands and grows with every new love is something she never could have hoped to understand without her. And Sansa loves the sound she makes before she laughs.

But all the same, it makes her feel afraid. Timid and afraid.

Because there’s always Dany—beautiful, implacable, impossible Dany—Dany and her broken heart, her shattered heart, sliced along the fault lines. Dany and her perfect smile, Dany with the mouth that had kissed Sansa a dozen, a million times—and yet she’s simply vanished.

She’s simply gone.

Sansa doesn’t realize this until she’s called the other girl half a dozen times, until Margaery tells her one day in between classes—“I can’t get ahold of her,”—until they’re sitting in a coffee shop after school, fingers interlaced, and Margaery’s iphone starts ringing on the high table.

“Oh, Jesus,” says Margaery, with more than a trace of distaste in her voice. “It’s Viserys.”

Something inside of Sansa cringes, hot and unwieldy, but she forces herself to speak anyhow. “Are you going to pick up?”

Margaery stares at the vibrating phone on the table, hands now twisted tightly in her lap. “Yes,” she says, finally. “Maybe he knows where Dany is. Maybe.“

“Viserys?” Margaery’s voice is cold, colder than Sansa has ever heard it before, and she suddenly recalls with perfect precision what Dany had told them in the motel room. _He touched me. He came into my bedroom and—_

She bites her lip, hard, as if to rid her mind of some dogged ghost. There is nothing she can do about that now, even if she wanted to—and oh, she does, but she also knows by now that the villains always win. The stories in the books she’d read as a child were the exact opposite of the cruelties of life; perhaps they’d made them that way to soften the blow, but all it had done for Sansa was leave her unprepared and bereft. No one had ever told her how cruel the world could become. No one ever told her how hard, how unforgiving people could be.

“She’s—she’s what?” There’s a very prominent pause; both of their coffees are going cold. “You want to come here to give us a map?” Sansa looks at Margaery imploringly, begging her, no; don’t let him come here, not here, where they’d sat with Dany a dozen times and laughed over the smallest of things, celebrated the most inconsequential of victories. But there’s a hard set to Margaery’s jaw, something Sansa has never seen before, and so she says nothing.

“Fine,” she says, finally, with almost a cold snap to her voice: a winter’s bite. “We’ll be waiting at Morning Glory. Don’t take too long.” She hangs up without saying good-bye.

When he enters, there is no question of who he is: he is beautiful, like Dany, with that same ivory-gold hair and finely-wrought features, as if he’s a character from a story, a fairytale. He wears his hair a little longer than most men, loose around the face, and he’s dressed mostly in black. At the sight of him, everything in Sansa goes cold. She grips her frigid coffee cup to stop the trembling of her fingers, and wonders briefly what she’s feeling: is it anger? is it sadness? is it rage? Does it matter, now that they’re helpless against him, and he’s the one with the key to Dany’s whereabouts, to her rescue?

He sits beside Margaery and she does not move away, though she bristles unexpectedly at the brush of his elbow against her arm. Up close, he is just as beautiful as he was from a distance (though perhaps not as beautiful as Dany), but there are violet-and-blue shadows of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark and weary. As if he’s lost one fight after another.

“You’re Sansa?” He says it as a demand, and Sansa nearly flinches back. She doesn’t. Instead she nods. His accent is high-toned, just as his sister’s is, and in that moment he looks so innocuous, so weary and so innocent, that it’s hard to believe what he’s done. Sansa has always been easily blinded by beauty, though she knows as well as anyone that it does not imply goodness. Not at all.

“Mental illness runs in our family,” he says bluntly, without any introduction. “Mood things, usually. I don’t know what it is. But I do know she gets—odd, sometimes, driven to anger or hopelessness, and when she gets like that no one can reach her.” He pauses, clearly agitated. “No one but you two, maybe.”

Sansa stares at him blankly. He’s speaking as if he loves her. Does he love her? Would you do such a thing to someone you loved? Could you?

The late afternoon sunlight is falling through the window to Viserys’ back, catching the strains of gold in his hair, all gilded bright and hollow shadows. His face is obscured by it: the perfect bones of his cheeks, the well-shaped mouth. It’s easy to see his relation to Dany, and that just makes her feel all the sicker. His eyes are darker than his sister’s, though, an indigo bordering on black, and Sansa can see herself reflected back in them. Uneasily, she stares down into her cold coffee.

“She always goes to the same place when she gets like this,” he continues, that same faint strain of arrogance clear in his voice even when he’s not being domineering. It’s clear that he doesn’t plan on going after her; and Sansa wouldn’t let him even if he wanted to. _As if you had a choice_ , she thinks to herself, _As if you could stop him if you tried_. It’s a bone-cold realization, and one she can’t shake away.

“Here.” He draws something from his pocket, a little hand-drawn map. “Do you know the interstate well?”

Margaery nods.

“Our parents have a summer house,” he says, “And that’s where she always runs to. It’s up north. A two hour drive, maybe, I don’t know. But she’ll be there.” His eyes take on an even darker cast. “She’ll listen to you. She won’t listen to me.”

Sansa is torn down the seams between guilt and anger. Anger, that Viserys would be even remotely indignant that his sister would no longer listen to even a word he said; guilt, that it may have been her relationship with Margaery that drove Dany there in the first place. She’d pushed the girl into deeper waters, colder depths; all of her resounding joy, her stark happiness, is leaking out through the tears in her eyes. She brushes them away abruptly, not wanting either of them—particularly Viserys—to see her cry.

“You’ll go,” he says. It is not a question.

“Yes,” says Margaery, slowly, taking the map into her hands. “We’ll go.”

And it’s like an arrow to the heart, like the very saddest song, that Sansa contemplates Dany all alone in that house, curled up at the edge of an old sofa and her hair curtaining her face, stiller than death. Alone, as only she can be: proud, beautiful, ever-lonely. And as Viserys slips from the booth like a fox he pauses only to say, “Make sure to bring her home.”

Then he’s gone, and there’s a hollowness where he had been, an aching open space. Sansa has never been so grateful for a lack. She licks her lips nervously, not aware that she’d been biting them, and looks across the table at Margaery. The older girl’s eyes are distant, cool, as if she’s remembering something she doesn’t want to remember. And finally, when she can shoulder the silence no longer, she says;

“When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” says Margaery firmly, as if there is simply no question about it. “If she’s depressed, then there’s no telling what she might do.”

“Has she ever gotten like this before?” Sansa asks, staring down into her coffee mug.

“Yes,” says Margaery, voice distant, far away, as if echoing across a mountain pass. “But she never ran away.” She pauses. “Or maybe she’s not running away. Maybe she’s running—to something.” But Sansa doesn’t understand, and doesn’t have the will, the energy, to ask what she means.

They rise from the booth and Sansa closes the space between them at once: kissing her mouth, so lightly, and then her warm white temple. Margaery’s heavy fall of hair is a crown of long-relinquished autumn, a golden-brown summer. It’s terrible, Sansa thinks absurdly, to see someone so beautiful look so sad. Her love for Margaery is the welling, sweet warmth of tears: how she’s imagined Heaven a dozen times, all golden-stained silence and the heavy-lidded faces of angels, voiceless now, their faces turned down against the face of God. Silence, gold, and tears—that is how she imagines paradise.

And when she looks into Margaery’s eyes, she sees at once that they both trust fate: that Dany will come back with them, inevitably, that they will fix this like they’ve fixed a dozen things before, because they have to, because they can’t not.

Because they can’t not.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 They make the drive mostly in silence, with not even the static of the radio to accompany them. Generally the world grows duskier, darker, the trees like soldiers straining at attention, casting phantoms down over the long ground. And then night clasps them, and the shadows are no more.

There are few cars on the freeway; Margaery’s Audi purrs across the flat land almost soundlessly, taking each curve with an elegance Sansa is unused to. She presses her hot forehead to the cold window, watching it all rush past: the signs beckoning them in for food or rest, the mounds of snow, the trees as naked silent sentinels, ever watching, voiceless as animals. She closes her eyes against the blackness of the night, but the darkness of her eyelids is just as oppressive. She opens them again, slowly.

It’s not hard to find the house. It’s enormous, white-paneled and black-roofed, a single light on in what Sansa supposes is an upstairs bedroom. After Margaery has parked the car in the driveway, Sansa turns to looks at her, meets honey eyes with her own: but there is nothing in them, just a reflection, and it makes Sansa go cold. Is Margaery not as guilty as she is? Or was it something else, something different, that drove Dany to this cold, snow-blown place?

She gets out of the car and slams the door behind her, throwing her head instinctively up to the stars. The sky is, as ever, lovelier than the earth; veils of starlight trailing down in veins, illuminating the beautiful white skin of Margaery’s bare hands, her revealed neck.

They stand on the porch, frozen, for a few long moments. And then Margaery knocks—once, twice.

Nothing.

She knocks again, fiercer this time. And again. And again. And—

The door swings open, and there stands Dany, impossibly small. There is an expression on her face that Sansa has never seen before: anger, yes, but anger mixed with something else—anger mixed with regret, with an old pain. She wonders how much the other girl has lost. She wonders if she’ll ever tell her.

“Why are you here.” Like Viserys’ words from earlier, it is not a question.

“Because we were worried,” says Margaery, hands open, placating. As one handles an injured animal. “Because you ran away, and you didn’t even leave a note.”

“He told you where I was.”

Sansa is biting her lip again; thankfully, Margaery comes again to the rescue. “Yes. Yeah, he did. He told us where to go.”

Something flashes in Dany’s pale eyes: an incredible anger, a bottomless pit of fury. For one mad moment Sansa thinks she’s about to shove them both off the stoop, slam the door in their open faces. But then it passes, as if she is, slowly, recognizing them: just Margaery and Sansa, who are looking at her as if she’s the last person in New Forest, the anchor that keeps them tied to shore. They’re both pleading, and though Dany looks at both of them impassively, coldly, at last she relents and steps back, letting them in.

“What’s wrong, Dany?” But Dany just ignores Sansa’s question, leads them through the low-lit, beautiful house, to a sitting room where she perches at the edge of a sofa. Sansa sits at the other end, curling her feet underneath her, and Margaery chooses a plush chair nearby. There is only one light on in the room—an old shaded lamp, casting a watery sort of brightness—and it throws Dany’s face into shadow.

“Dany,” Sansa says, so softly, “Are you okay?” Her voice is colored with guilt, and she knows they all can sense it. And sitting there, staring at her—Sansa realizes she misses her powerfully, misses her kisses and her sleek hands, the taste of her mouth. She misses the way she’d throw her head back to laugh when genuinely surprised, a burst of happiness leaving her lips like a song.

 _It shouldn’t hurt this much_ , she tells herself. _You have Margaery._

But it does.

“I’m fine,” returns Dany coldly. “I just needed to get away. I needed to think.”

Margaery leans forward a little in her chair, chin on her knees. “About what?”

“About you. About Sansa. About Drogo, and Joffrey, and everyone else who came before.” Her voice is more bitter than Sansa has ever heard it. There is almost a violent slash to it, a serrated edge. She’s on the defensive, and Sansa knows why.

“Who… who was Drogo?” She chances, into the silence between them.

The great room, all heavy Dutch paintings and enormous fireplace, suddenly seems very small. For a long moment Dany doesn’t answer. There’s an expression on her face that Sansa can’t place, a dozen emotions warring across it. And then she speaks.

“He was my… boyfriend,” she says, slowly. “After Joffrey. He died.”

“Oh,” says Sansa, so softly. “Oh.”

But she knows that she cannot overcome the other girl’s anguish. She knows why her eyes are again filled with darkness.

“Margaery,” Dany says suddenly, “I was remembering what you said. About how everything you thought you had, you lost. Well.” She pauses. “I understand. I think I understand, too.”

Margaery and her twin loves; Dany and her parents, her boyfriend, her brother; Sansa and little Bran and Rickon, submerged in that laughing flame. All of the things that will never return, at least not in full—the cold majesty of all that they’ve lost and can’t regain.

“And I’m beginning to think that grief doesn’t ruin you,” says Dany, so softly. “I’m beginning to think it shows you who you are.”

And Sansa suddenly has the impression of a world without Dany: a world without her bright white-blonde hair, the little twinkling braids, the ferocity, the undeniable softness. Funny, she thinks, without much humor: funny how the lack of a single person would make the entire world so incredibly empty.

“Nothing really belongs to anyone,” she continues, in that same low, steady voice. “That’s the only thing I know.”

Her eyes meet Sansa’s; Sansa wants to flinch, to look away, but is captured by the weight of the other girl’s almost-violet eyes. For the first time since the’ve met, she is begging Sansa for an answer, but Sansa despairs to find that she has none.

“Did you see the stars?” She says suddenly, stupidly.

Dany nods, slowly.

“My mom used to tell me that they were angels, watching over me while I slept.” She squeezes her eyes shut, tight as a child’s, so briefly. “I always loved that idea. The idea of a guardian angel.” Sansa pauses. “I wish I could be that for you. Dany, I wish I could be anything to you.” Because there’s a knife lodged in the other girl’s ribs, and she doesn’t know how to dislodge the blade.

“You are something to me,” says Dany, voice strangely hushed. “You always have been. You always will.” She takes in a small, shuddering breath. She won’t cry; Dany never cries. And yet she looks closer to the act than she ever has before.

“I hope the two of you are happy,” she says, more firmly now. “And I hope you believe me when I say that.”

Sansa does. And so does Margaery, from the look of her; an indescrible emotion passing across her face like the wind, there one moment and gone the next. Sansa takes a second just to look at her: heavy fall of autumnal hair, skin as milky as moonlight, the twitch of her slender fingers as they clasp one another tightly, as if in prayer. Eyes slightly tilted at the edges, upwards, as though they’re always smiling. Sansa wishes the whole world could be like Margaery; she wishes the world would mirror her, adopt her goodness and her sweetness and her grace. But it’s easy to hope for things—it’s not so easy for these hopes to rise, to come true.

“I’m tired,” says Dany suddenly, and Sansa sees how exhausted she looks, the twin smudges beneath her eyes mirroring her brother’s bruises. “Let’s finish this tomorrow. I’m just—I’m just so tired.”

Sansa looks to Margaery, and Margaery looks to her; the brunette gives a little inclination of her head, and then they both turn to Dany, so infinitely small on the edge of the couch, so impossibly proud. Even now, Sansa thinks—even now.

“Sleep with me,” she says suddenly, staining the pristine silence with words that come dangerously close to a plead. “The bed is big. And I don’t want to be alone, not tonight.”

Sansa nods, stands, goes to take the other girl’s hand. “Of course,” she says, voice so quiet, as if she were speaking to a child. “Of course we will.”

Dany’s bedroom is white and airy, with arched windows that stare out into a frozen winter world. The bed is enormous, as she’d said; and at once Sansa is taking off her shoes, sliding into the comfort of it all, the thick coverlet and the smooth sheets, her dress from the day before still on. She closes her eyes.

Slowly she becomes aware of other shapes moving, pressing down on the high mattress. She half-opens her eyes: there’s Dany, in the very middle, clad only in a short shift now, and Margaery on the other side of her, still in skirt and blouse. For a long while they simply lay there, not speaking, as if silence could swallow Dany’s pain—and then Margaery is shifting, pushing into Dany, burying her face into the blonde girl’s shoulder. And moments later—Dany’s arm reaching for Sansa, pulling her towards her, so that they’re entwined, three girls, and the comfort of it is nearly enough to bring stinging tears to Sansa’s eyes.

It feels right, somehow; the vanilla scent of Dany’s hair and the pale traces of Margaery’s perfume still redolent in the cool air. Sansa curves her arm around Dany’s waist, drawing her tighter, feeling the bones beneath the shift, the smooth tender skin. It must be past midnight; it must be past three o’ clock. And yet Sansa can’t find sleep, not laying there with the two girls she loves most in the world, her head so weary and so tired, full of wispy strands that simply will not come together.

All she knows is that she loves them, and that this is, maybe, the truest love she’s ever known—and though Sansa has always been good at hiding her pain, she has never been good at hiding her contentment, her joy. She presses her chin into Dany’s shoulder, gives the blonde girl a kiss that makes her shudder all the way down to her bones; and then her eyes are closing, the warmth enveloping them like a shroud, so peaceful and so complete that Sansa could have died just then and not had a single regret.

“Good night,” murmurs Margaery, from Dany’s other side. She sounds drowsy with tiredness, sleep-drenched; it makes Sansa’s chest ache fondly.

“Good night,” Dany repeats, voice just so soft again, as if to speak louder would be to shatter the perfection of what is unfolding between them. Sansa doesn’t know what it is; she doesn’t even know if it could possibly be named.

“Good night,” she whispers, always the last one to speak, and Dany turns her face to kiss Sansa’s forehead. It makes something sad swell up in Sansa, something bittersweet and cold, but she nestles into the other girl’s side anyway, seeking comfort more than warmth.

So they lay there, three girls bound by something more powerful than blood, as Sansa curls up with her heart pounding, aching: _Just forgive me. I want your forgiveness._ But Dany is already asleep, her breaths light and even, lashes fluttering against her snowy cheeks. Sansa closes her eyes again, wishing for things that could never be, dreams that could never take flesh. And when she dreams, she dreams of the three of them, bound like triplets, entwined like twins. Even in her dream, there’s that question: what does it mean? What could it possibly mean?

She awakes before the others to a gauzy, shadow-washed predawn. Her legs are entangled with Dany’s; slowly she slides out of bed, careful not to disturb their rest. And then she goes to stand by the great arched window, something pure as light lengthening in her heart, spreading her chest wide with hollow space. And she can feel it—she can feel it—her heart soaring like one of those morning birds through the silent darkness of the dawn.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
